Picturing the Past
by LaughNowFlyLaterxx
Summary: 50 semi-connected one-shots based off of the unraveling of the American state, Minnesota, from the day he was discovered as a French territory to the state he has become. Rated T for language and ideologically sensitive material.
1. Settlement

A/N I've read a few stories on here about how people do a 50 Sentences challenge, and I've always wanted to try my hand at something like that. I finally got off my ass and did a 50 Prompt challenge (to myself. All lonely lol); that is, I'm writing 50 one-shots based off of 50 sentences/prompts that I wrote. This story deals with OC!Minnesota and his history as both a territory and a state d: (Happy 153rd Birthday to you, Minnesota! You don't look a day over 152) I decided to post this on 5/11 because it _is _his birthday, after all xD

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers or OC!Minnesota (which is my friend Hajear's creation)

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_Prompt 1: "Settlement"_

_When the white men settled on his land, Minnesota could only watch as the people of his tribes dwindle drastically, his innocent mind not yet accustomed to the horrors about to unfold._

n.n

A group of exhausted men staggered into their poorly-made camp. They were all sweaty from the difficult labor they'd put in throughout the day and nearly collapsed upon the sight of their make-shift beds. After taking a few moments to breathe, half of the men stood up and began stripping off their once elegant clothing while the other half inspected the surrounding area for wood to build a fire. Despite having little food to eat for the night, the men were all talking and laughing heartily.

Brown orbs peered out form the brush that was a mere walking distance from the lively camp. A little boy with a single, thick braid that cascaded down his back crouched silently as he observed the group like that of a hawk. 'They act just like the warriors from around here,' the boy noted, 'they just have white skin and yellow hair.'

Furrowing his brow curiously, the boy wiped away a thin film of sweat off of his forehead. 'Sakima said otherwise though...' The boy gently nibbled on his lower lip. He could still hear the coarse voice of his elder warning him to be aware of the white men. "Don't fall for the illusions, Minnesota," the chief had said in a soft voice as he gently ran his fingers through the boy's ebony curls, "they're taking our land, and will take our lives next if we don't start to fight back."

Minnesota took the warning seriously and immediately began staking this particular group of men nearly a fortnight ago. He was waiting for them to do anything that he deemed as a threat – but so far, all they did was go out hunting (they once caught a large buck that fed them for two days) and would return to camp, exhausted. Smoothing out the wrinkles on his deer-skin leggings, he thought solemnly, 'Still, Sakima is never wrong, and what he says, goes.' He crossed his arms with a huff before sticking out his lip in a pout. 'Though sometimes, I wish he was wrong.'

-.-

"My, my, these people here—they're animals!" a short man that kept his blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail snorted. "We've had to have gone through nearly an entire village today." He exhaled sharply as a pain shot in his left leg. Sitting down on a log perched by a tent, the man shook his head. "The lands are beautiful, as are the women, but they all act like... like-"

"'Savages?'" another man offered snobbishly, earning a few chortles from the others. However, the presumed leader of the group – a thin, effeminate man that had his golden tresses hug his face – rubbed his temples soothingly as a weak sigh escaped his lips. He pulled one hand away from his head and used it as a fan to cool off his sticky face while giving his men a weary look.

"Now, now," he emitted with slight aggravation, "these are the indigenous people of mon fils land. It's rude to call them such names when they were here first." A few men snorted in disdain, but kept to themselves after the small scolding. The man closed his azure eyes and inhaled the cooling air around him. 'I swear, they have no idea how brusque they act.' He let his head roll back and sighed once more. 'But that's what bloodshed does to someone, I suppose.'

"Hé France," one of the men said after a long tense silence, "come help me with this food." France groaned, but grudgingly forced himself off of his comfy position and walked to help a comrade in need.

-.-

Minnesota rubbed his eyes roughly and bit his lip to keep himself from yawning. Day was slowing melting into night and, as the air grew cooler and softer with each passing moment, he realized he had to leave as quickly and as quietly as possible. 'Damn it,' he thought to himself angrily, 'I let myself linger for too long again. I have to go, now.' He peered out at the group before him. Anxiety settled in his softening eyes.

"Tch, figures they _all_ have to be standin' around," Minnesota whispered coarsely as his eyes darted wildly. He tried to find a clearing, but his stomach churned when he couldn't locate one. 'There's too many about.' An unfamiliar feeling pumped through his veins as Minnesota felt his legs quiver slightly—"No, damn it, _I'm not scared._"

As soon as the words left his mouth, an unnerving regret welled up in the pit of his stomach. Silence spread a little too fast and Minnesota glanced up to see that the men had dropped everything that they were doing. They hitched their breath while they looked amongst themselves with a mixture of fright and anger in their eyes. Minnesota stared out into the camp, keeping his mouth shut tightly. The men started to talk to each other in hushed, foreign tones. If the little boy in the bushes were to guess, he would say that they were asking if anyone else heard the sound.

Letting out a soft sigh as the clamoring died off and all was calm in the camp, the brunette took one last look around his surroundings. The only chance he had to escape, he saw, was the path behind him. 'So noisy, though,' Minnesota thought nervously. 'I really hope they don't hear...' Suddenly, dread loomed in his heart as a pair of eyes bore into his own. The small boy's initial reaction was to look up – and he did.

Curious cerulean orbs stared into amber eyes, which widened by the second. As if he'd been caught red-handed, Minnesota swallowed a shriek and whipped around so his back was to the blond man. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he hurried away from his not-so hidden spot in the brush. He was oblivious to the yelling that soon followed from his abrupt departure—his only focus now was to run; run wherever his legs took him.

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A/N I... can't really say I liked the end of this chapter, but no matter. I still have 49 chapters to go d: If anyone is interested on learning more about how Minnesota looks (especially if you want to visualize him better), I have a link posted in my bio to my friend Hajear's deviantART, where she posted a chibi picture of an older Minnesota (I'll note when Chibi!Minnesota is older, but so far, he's still a newborn)

A bit of facts on Minnesota: he's stubborn, yet a strong state, he's a terrible smoker (going as far as getting pissed if he doesn't have any cigarettes), he _is _a Native American!OC (this may sound bad, but so people know this before submitting a review, I'm Native too, so I know how pissed a Native can get (and yes...we do laugh a lot xD)), and he's relatively silent. However, when he speaks up, he's obnoxiously loud.

Interesting facts on the state itself: it's one of the biggest states in the continental US, the Mall of America is located in Bloomington, MN, we have the largest ball of twine (how... boring), and the weather varies all year round. And I mean _varies_ (we got snow near the END of April this year. What the shit?) Famous people have come out of MN as well: singer Prince (or the Artist Formerly Known as Prince, for those stuck in the '90s) started the porn groove and the Minneapolis sound in...Minneapolis. Owl City's Adam Young is from Owatonna, MN. Actors Sean William Scott, Vince Vaughn, and Josh Hartnett are from here. That one story about the spirit bear is -partially- set in Minneapolis... yeah, that's pretty much it.


	2. Discovery

A/N A continuation from the first chapter (Two chapters...in ONE day? Fuckin' rage!)

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers or OC!Minnesota.

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_Prompt 2: "Discovery"_

_Minnesota remembered being swept off the ground and into the arms of an effeminate man, who smiled and claimed him in the name of France—whatever that meant._

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Very carefully, Minnesota ran his smooth hands through his thick, black hair, brushing out the knots and curls as best as he could. He stared at his reflection in the cerulean river. A smile danced on his lips; he was captivated by the length of his unruly hair.

A few days had passed since he'd fled the white men. His feet were still sore from the incredible length he endured when he ran from the group. "But I still made it out alive," he murmured triumphantly to no one in particular. His face fell slightly, however, as he remembered how he marched into his home, his tribe. The warriors looked on to see him stagger on with pride in his auburn eyes. Sakima was tending to the fire; his back turned to the boy.

Minnesota had tip-toed towards the older man, his moccasins making a barely audible sound as he moved closer. He twisted his face into something that resembled a monster before he jumped next to Sakima, hoping to cause the man to flinch in fright. Instead, Sakima continued on with staring into the bright flames, showing no signs of acknowledging Minnesota. "And where have you been for the past night, niijii(1)?" the aged man said sternly, breaking the ice.

The brunette smirked as he told his tale about how he barely escaped from the imprisonment that the white men had promised since their arrival. He told of how he had to fend for himself in order to flee from the iron grip that the men had on him – a bit of an exaggeration, but the elder understood what Minnesota sputtered out rapidly.

The youth hadn't expected the next action, for his mind wandered into a place where he'd become the toughest warrior of the Anishinaabe people. He didn't notice the fury that twisted about on Sakima's scarred face. Without skipping a beat, a rough hand tightly clenched on the end of Minnesota's long braid and tugged with no warning. The boy was ripped from his idealistic world and let out a painful and startled yelp.

Suddenly, he was lifted into the air and was eye-to-eye with the swarthy-skinned old man. On any other occasion, Minnesota would've kicked and yelled until he got his way, but that look of pure rage in Sakima's beady eyes frightened Minnesota silent. He just grit his teeth and let his short legs dangle freely. "Minnesota, what the hell have you done?" Sakima's voice was indecipherable, though his face really said it all. He shook Minnesota firmly; the boy bit down hard on his lower lip to keep from screeching.

"W-what?" Minnesota choked out. He didn't understand—did he forget to do something that Sakima wanted done right away? "What did I d-do?" Sakima brought the little boy closer to his scarred face. Minnesota winced as he felt more hairs being pulled out from his scalp, but he hitched his breath when he felt Sakima's hot breath brush onto his cheeks. The others of the tribe watched silently from afar, acting like they were working. Minnesota shut his eyes tightly when he felt the elder's free hand grasp onto his limp wrist. Terrible thoughts ran through the binoojiing's(2) mind; what was his punishment going to be? Was he going to get whipped? But why, what did he do?

Then, as though he'd gotten a change of heart, Sakima's grip on Minnesota's wrist loosened a bit as he brought the small hand towards his cheek. Minnesota could feel the freshly healed scars underneath his fingertips – he shuddered while the elder continued running the fingers against his face. The feeling that was forming in his body made him feel dreadful.

"Do you feel the scars?" Sakima grunted. Minnesota nodded—he wished he hadn't felt them. "You feel the rugged texture, and you feel the way your heart clenched at the touch of it." Again, the boy nodded, even though what Sakima said was more of a statement than an inquiry. "The blood shed during battle was not for my sake, but for my people's sake. I don't fight for just myself; I fight for the Anishinaabe people, and for our land." Not knowing how to respond, the boy stayed quiet, frustrating the chief even more so. Swallowing a growl, Sakima continued, "The white men—they're the ones that started this battle, this ongoing _hatred _between us and them. I lost half of my face in their hands—" Sakima shook his head.

"You have no idea what you've done, Minnesota. You may have escaped, negoosis, but the consequences are far more greater than you'll ever imagine." Sakima dropped the boy onto the cold earth then. He turned his old body around, letting his back face the territory once more. Minnesota sat on the ground, trembling slightly as the words hit him like rocks. "If you want to help out one of your many tribes, then you go out and find the white men that you have so easily fled," the elder took a deep breath and nonchalantly added, "and you kill them by yourself."

It was going to be a hard task to do, Minnesota decided as he stared longingly into the watery reflection, but if he had to show that he could help and become a warrior to his chief by committing such a heinous act, then so be it. 'Besides,' he remembered, 'Sakima's always right. They were the ones that started this fight, and we're gonna have to be the ones to end it.' He pulled away his hand, which had gracefully braided his hip-length hair during his pondering. With a satisfied smirk, Minnesota stood up and stretched out the stiff joints in his legs.

He didn't notice the quiet shuffling of feet in the brush behind him, for his thoughts distracted him all too easily. He stiffened when his ears picked up the sound of a stick snapping in half. Whipping around, Minnesota picked up the nearest weapon – a sharp rock – and stabbed the air in choppy movements. "W-who's there?" he demanded angrily. Fear bubbled icily in his veins, but he ignored it. "Hey, I asked you somethin'! Whoever's out there, answer me or-or I'll stab ya!"

What happened next completely caught him off-guard.

The blond man that had spotted him those fateful few days ago jumped out of the bushes. His hair was no longer elegant—clumps of dirt and grass stained the golden locks. However, it wasn't just the sight of the white man that surprised Minnesota; the man's reaction was unbelievable. "Mignon~(3) I want you so much!" the man squealed in a thick, foreign accent. Minnesota stood still as the rock slipped out of his hand. Overwhelmed, the boy took a step back towards the river as the sweaty male before him grew closer.

In a swift movement, the man's muscularly thin arms wrapped around Minnesota's waist and hoisted him up into the air with care. "T'es tellement mignon~(4) You're mine!" Minnesota could feel his head get lighter as the man squeezed the life out of him. He was being tossed around like a rag, though something in the little boy's head told him that the white man didn't want to hurt the boy. He kept silent as the man set him down on the ground.

"Je suis Francis Bonnefoy ou République française(5)," the man said in a warm voice. Minnesota tilted his head slightly. Amused by his little knowledge of French, France knelt down on one knee. He urged the boy to come closer—although he wasn't sure why, Minnesota obliged and was standing directly in front of France. He stared hard into the Frenchman's cerulean eyes, hoping to see the man flinch in response. Instead, France pulled the boy forward into a tight hug (no one ever did this to Minnesota, so he basked in the odd warmth the man's body gave off) and declared in a whisper;

"Mon amour, mon fils(6), I claim you in the name of France."

n.n

1 - Ojibwe for "my brother/friend"

2 - Ojibwe for "boy"

3 - French for "cute"

4 - French for "You're so cute!"

5 - French for "I am Francis Bonnefoy, or The French Republic."

6 - French for "My love, my son"

If I'm wrong on any of these translations, do tell me! I'd hate for France to tell Minnesota, "My love, my butt..." or something weird like that o-o


	3. Name

A/N Thanks, **Mr. Orange Bliss** (I'm glad that you enjoy my writing so much~ It makes me hopeful that I can write (: Note: I do know your username has no spaces, but FFN is acting up on me T_T) and **Crow Song **(A fellow Minnesotan! I'm glad I'm not the only one on this site! lol Same with Mr. Orange Bliss' username, I can't get the name to save without spaces D:), for your wonderful reviews! They're what kept me writing this :D

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers.

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_Prompt 3: "Name"_

_When the strange white man stared into his eyes, he asked him for a name – with no response, the man grinned and smoothly said, "I know, you'll be known as Clotaire Beaulieu from here on out."_

n.n

Minnesota rested his head on the blond man's shoulder as the two made their way back to France's camp. The sun was setting. His eyes were closed; he was feigning sleep so he wouldn't have to deal with the older man's constant cooing anymore. It was all so odd how easily he gave in to the Frenchman's advances – it was as though Minnesota _wanted _to go with him.

"Hé, look who I found wandering by the riverbank," the young boy could hear France whisper to his men when they finally found their way back. Judging by the simultaneous gasps, Minnesota guessed that the group were surprised to see someone like him in the arms of someone like their leader. He so badly wanted to smirk, but he fought that urged and gently shifted in his fake sleep.

"You-you caught one of _them_?" one of the men squeaked as they all hunched around France to examine the boy. Most were commenting on his small size and his long, naturally black hair, causing Minnesota to nuzzle into France's chest, earning a few more gasps of amazement. However, a crisp click of a tongue sounded through the young boy's ears—he had to use up all of his willpower to keep from breaking his disguise as an innocent victim.

"Tch, so you caught a savage. What are you going to name it?" Minnesota felt confused, but made no signs of showing it. 'What's a "savage"? And my name is Sky-tinted water(1),' he thought with a hint of bewilderment. The men hitched their breath, including France, and Minnesota tensed up unwillingly. Suddenly, the men were speaking in their strange tongue again, but with much more ebbed tones. With a tinge of confidence, the little boy opened an eye slightly and saw his captor with anger on his face.

"Ta gueule!(2)" he said hastily. Minnesota shut his eye—he could feel all eyes were on him once more. "Il est juste un garçon(3)." The blond shook his head then. His expression softened as he nudged at the boy, who relaxed at the gentle notion. "You must realize, he's not only a boy, he's a territory~" Then, the men were at it in their strange language again.

Minnesota wanted to smack himself in the forehead; their words were dizzying to follow. 'They sound like a bunch of gazhagayns(4), cunning and smooth,' he thought as he tried to follow the conversation as best as he could. A few times, a word he understood was spoken, but he mainly guessed the entire discussion. After what seemed like an eternity, the men ceased their talking abruptly. Sensing the tension in the group, Minnesota remained still in France's arms and stayed that way until he could feel his body being lowered onto something soft. More fiery words were exchanged between the men when a blanket was placed on top of his body.

"Ta gueule, Jacques, or you might wake the little one," an unfamiliar voice broke out in a grunt. Jacques scoffed, but said no more after that. Minnesota couldn't help but smile—'Whoever this "Jacques" is sounds like a jackass,' he thought smugly. His grasp on consciousness was slipping with each passing second ('How long have I been awake?'). Trying to contain a yawn to avoid any interrogation from the group, Minnesota curled up into a ball and allowed sleep to take over his exhausted body.

-.-

The sun slowly rose from the east, bringing a soft, burning light to the camp. The young boy stretched out his arms upon feeling a beam of red warming his cheeks. He emitted a yawn, completely unaware of his surroundings. He tried to stretch his legs, but he kicked something long and hard. 'What the-?' He tensed up immediately when he opened his eyes all the way and saw the strange blond man from the other day laying by his feet. His face expressed pain when Minnesota's feet jabbed his face.

"Ouch! Ugh..." France shoved the small feet out of his face groggily and rubbed his nose. The boy pulled his legs close to his chest as he sat upright and stiffened. He tightly clenched the oceanic blue quilt when the Frenchman balled his fist and yawned. As if yesterday's events hit him like a bullet, France straightened up in an elegant posture and he turned his head towards the little binoojiing. A smile crept up on his face—('What is it with this guy and his smiles?').

"Bonjour, comment allez-vous(5)?" he greeted pleasantly. Minnesota kept his mouth shut; he didn't remember that it was he who gave himself in to France's care. And even if he did, he couldn't speak French. France, coming out of his sleepy state, realized his error and chuckled embarrassingly to himself. "My apologies, you're probably better understanding at English, non~?" The boy didn't respond, which made the blond shake his head in disbelief.

"You must be able to speak some sort of language, right?" His mouth was glued shut into a thin line. Sensing his rebellion, France sighed with chagrin. "Well, may I at least know your name? It'll make things easier for the both of us." Minnesota tilted his head questioningly, which made the blond hopeful that he managed to get some sort of reply out of the Native.

"Mni," Minnesota emitted quietly after a pause of elongated silence. It was France's turn to tilt his head. He thought deeply about the word, knowing he'd heard it from a tribe that his group had recently raided. 'Mini, mini...' Suddenly, the meaning struck him. France got on his knees and reached out for a canteen of water that rested next to his head.

"Water, right?" he whispered with amusement as he handed it to the boy. He gave the foreign object an odd glare before it slipped out of his hands quickly, spilling on the bed. France gasped in horror to see his bed ruined, but Minnesota had an idea. Reaching over the edge of the makeshift mattress, he swiped up a good handful of dirt. Despite France's flabbergasted expression, Minnesota spilled more of the water onto the bed, making a small pool. Much to his captor's dismay, the youth dropped the dirt into the pool and mixed it with his finger(6). "W-what are you doing?" the blonde squeaked vehemently. Ignoring his question, the boy pointed to the dirty liquid.

"Mnisota(7)," the brunette stated crisply. France rubbed his temples at the sight of his ruined bed before he looked at his territory. Minnesota repeated the word over and over again until France finally said with agitation, "Assez(8)!" Although he did stop, Minnesota pointed to the mixture again. Not putting two and two together, the nation held up his hands to stop the little boy.

"Mon garçon, just stop. You've ruined the bed we have to share for the remainder of time my crew and I are staying here. If you don't have a name, then I'll grant you one." Minnesota's jaw dropped and he pointed at the dirty water again as he started up on the 'Mnisota' chant, though France overlooked that. He took a few moments to think. 'He's such a quiet child, despite being a bit violent,' he thought with a wince and a rub of his sore nose. 'And his land is beautiful, if I must say...' And he connected the two mentally and almost howled out in joy as he thought of a name.

"Mnisota!" the boy cried out one last time before he felt France looming over his tiny frame. Hitching his breath, the young warrior looked up and locked eyes with the grinning man. Taking the brunette into his arms and waking the others with his loud cackling, France proclaimed amorously, "I know, you'll be known as Clotaire Beaulieu(9) from here on out~"

Minnesota resisted the urge to face-palm.

n.n

1 – Minnesota's name is the Dakota word for "Sky-tinted water" or "Somewhat cloudy water"

2 – French for "Shut up!"

3 – French for "He's just a boy."

4 – Ojibwe word for "cat(s)"

5 – French for "Good morning, how are you?"

6 – When settlers met the tribes of Minnesota, it was difficult for the two groups to understand each other (what with the language barrier). So the Natives would actually use milk to drop into a river/some sort of water way and say 'Mnisota' (Minnesota didn't have milk on him at the time, so he used dirt)

7 – This is one alternative to spell Minnesota and was, at the time, the correct way to spell it because the Dakota word 'mni' means 'water', though either spelling is correct (On another note, Minnesota's name comes from the Dakota language, but because the Anishinaabe people are the biggest tribal group in MN, he speaks the Ojibwe language fluently. I probably should have mentioned this in the 1st chapter, but oh well)

8 – French for "Enough!"

9 – Clotaire is a French name, meaning "loud warrior" (France names him this sarcastically due to MN's silence) and "Beaulieu" is French for "beautiful land" (Beaulieu is a typical Native American surname in Northern Minnesota. More likely in other places too, but where I live, everyone's a Beaulieu -.-)


	4. Frybread

A/N This chapter veers off track chronologically wise, so here's something you need to know—this one-shot takes place in modern-day US, so Minnesota is about 17 (I would like to say that yes, I do know that America is supposed to look like a 19 year old and he has a 17 year old son, and said son has 87 _children_ that represent the counties of MN. But hey, that's Hetalia for you)

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers or OC!Minnesota.

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_Prompt 4: "Frybread"_

_He loved the golden pieces of greasy heaven; not just because of the taste, but it was a remnant of his Native America past, of how he was once treated and of how far he and his people have come._

n.n

"_Hey frog-fucker, you ever heard of Nair?"_

Minnesota wanted to bust out laughing when he heard one of his 87 counties remark that so casually to his British uncle, England. America beat him to the punch, albeit awkward. Instead, the U.S. state just took a puff of a cigarette and stared at the bushy-browed blond, waiting for him to say something. His county, Red Lake(1), had stuck out his tongue at England while America tried to get Iggy to calm down with his boisterous laughing.

"_It's nothin', bro, he's a kid and, well, your eyebrows are pretty bushy." _Another laugh had left his lips. _"You gotta give the kid props for his jokes!" _Minnesota was almost always amused by his county's antics, for he agreed with whatever the boy had to say ('Just like his nindede(2)').

What had been said next, however, was completely unnecessary.

England had shoved a snickering America into the ground before he himself dropped to one knee to face Red Lake eye-to-eye. Red Lake retracted his tongue and instead pursed his lips as England shot him daggers. _"Well, you little savage(3), if you're oh so funny, tell me, if your people are renowned for their everlasting respect for the elders, where did you go wrong?" _Minnesota's cigarette then slipped from his lips as his mouth widened in shock.

The next thing Minnesota remembered was feeling his knuckles bruising and looking around to see a bloody England sprawled out on the cold earth. America was on his knees and had placed a hamburger on the older man's forehead while a hysterical Red Lake covered his mouth to hide a growing smirk and muffle a laugh. Putting the pieces together, the state snatched his county's hand. He mumbled a quick farewell to America before power-walking away with Red Lake in tow.

The duo were silent for the most part of the long walk. Red Lake forced himself to cease his laughter because he knew how furious Minnesota was without a cigarette. He even refused to resist his father's iron clad grasp on his wrist. He did, however, mewl in excitement when the two finally made it back to the elder's house and the aroma of bread frying filled his nose. He immediately ripped his arm away from Minnesota when he noticed his older cousin, Manitoba(4), in the window, making the delicious pieces with a smile.

Furious to see the Canadian province inside his home yet again, Minnesota raced his boy to the front door and kicked Red Lake further in when the county beat him. "Manitoba, the fuck are ya doin' here?" Minnesota asked with a hint of venom as he entered the deliciously-scented kitchen. Manitoba turned around with a grin plastered on his face.

"Oh, I figured you guys would be hungry by the time you got back, so I let myself in and made frybread, eh!" the Canadian said warmly. "I didn't think you'd mind, 'cause you're always talking about how frybread is your soul food, eh." Red Lake had propped himself up on a chair and reached for a fresh-off-the-stove piece as Minnesota grasped onto Manitoba's elbow and shoved him out of the kitchen.

"And many miigweches(5) for that, but do me a favor and go hop the fuckin' border back to _your _home," the state growled. Just as Manitoba was about to protest about seeing his favorite cousin, Minnesota had already escorted the province out of the door. Before slamming the door on the latter's face, Minnesota's face got closer to Manitoba's face. A mere inch made up the gap between the two and the Canadian's face twisted in disdain when Minnesota opened his mouth. However, instead of confirming the state's sexuality, the former French territory whispered something. "I have to talk to Red Lake about something _personal and private_, so just go on now."

With that, Minnesota stepped back and promptly slammed the door on the young man's face and locked it. "I know you heard me, Red Lake, so get your ass out here. I wasn't kidding when I said I have to talk to you." An awkward silence filled the air when the boy appeared behind his father. His face was solemn and his throat thickened with fear, but he managed to take a bite of his greasy piece of frybread and swallow it down. He nearly choked on it when he looked up to see Minnesota's hard auburn eyes glaring at him.

"Oh, you'll be fine, sav(6), I ain't mad at 'cha," the elder said monotonously in response to Red Lake's bad coughing. He simply waited for the boy to straighten up before he spoke again. "So... err..." If Minnesota had to be one describe in one word, it would be 'silent'. He wasn't a man of _just_ a few words—he was a man of one or two. Dealing with something as serious as this wasn't his strong point, but damn it, he was going to try. He just needed to use an example, something that Red Lake's always known of, but never actually knew. Something like-

The golden grease that dribbled down Red Lake's chin caught Minnesota's eye and an idea popped up in his head. A smirk serenaded his lips as the state crouched down to eye level with his son and he motioned for the boy to come closer. A pink tongue was his reply. "Miskwaagamiiwi-Zaaga'iganing, ondaas(7)," Minnesota demanded. Red Lake begrudgingly took a step forward and stood there with a pout. Minnesota snatched the frybread out of the binoojing's hand and held it up. "Red Lake, do you know why you like eating frybread so much?" The boy paused and thought about it for a second. Why did he like it a lot? It was always a given item to him—he never remembered a day when he didn't like frybread.

"I 'unno," Red Lake responded sullenly with a shrug. Minnesota clicked his tongue in amusement—he made Red Lake eat it since the day he discovered him as a newborn, though the latter never complained.

"Did you know our people ate this all the time back when I was your age?" Minnesota asked quietly. Red Lake's eyes widened slightly as he snapped his head up and stared into Minnesota's vigilant orbs. "It's true. I grew up eating frybread. I'd eat it with everything."

"With everything?"

"Everything."

"Hohwah(8)." Minnesota chortled dryly under his breath as he bit off a piece of the hardened dough.

"My mother was the one who fed me frybread. She had a natural knack for making it, so it was always stuffed in my mouth at meal times." Red Lake murmured something that sounded like 'Wow.' "It was a 'must-have,' I guess you could say. I ate it everyday, through everything I witnessed." Minnesota shook his head as he remembered seeing men swinging in the breeze. He swallowed down hard before regaining his serious demeanor and handed back the piece of greasy heaven.

"Frybread was a staple in everyone's diet when I was a kid. It was filling and could fill the hole in their hearts for a moment when a battle was lost and many of our warriors died." Red Lake bit his lower lip as he held the golden piece up to his chest. "I remember hearing these white guys saying to a Native guy, 'I don't understand why you people try when in the end, you're all going to fall.' Well, look who's still here," Minnesota added as he pulled Red Lake into his arm while using his free hand to ruffle the boy's hair. After a minute-long protest, the youth held up the bread and stared at it in awe.

"Hohwah, there's even a story behind frybread. Here I thought we ate frybread 'cause you were too fuckin' cheap to buy us McDonald's," Red Lake said in his casual tone. Knowing that this serious conversation pretty much flew right over the boy's head, Minnesota sighed and got up on his feet once more. Red Lake swallowed down the remainder of his frybread before Minnesota nudged at the door, jingling keys in hand.

"C'mon then, sav, your fuckin' cheap dad will treat you to the Dollar Menu at McDonald's if you want."

n.n

1 – The debut of Red Lake, one of Minnesota's 87 counties! Interesting facts my friend made up: He's about 7 or 8 at first glance, he loves frybread (and now knows why), instead of having a braid like MN, he has a rat-tail, and he swears just like Minnesota did as a kid. Real interesting facts: Red Lake is not only a town and a county, he's a reservation, AND he's also a sovereign nation (so he does things on his own without the federal government – e.g. America and Minnesota – on his ass consistently).

2 – Ojibwe for "father" (Minnesota is referring to himself as RL's father, there's no Mpreg in this story xD)

3 – As many would've probably guessed from the first chapters (and American Indian History), 'savage' was (and is still) used as a way to describe the Native Americans, for they had 'animal' qualities for not going to school, hunting for survival, living outside and the like.

4 – The debut of Manitoba, one of Canada's children. Interesting facts my friend made up: He's around the same age as Minnesota, he almost always wandering in Minnesota home (and catching hell from MN for it), Red Lake is his favorite cousin, and he – apparently – knows how to make frybread. An interesting fact: according to my cousin, if you happen to own a Red Lake Band of Ojibwe tribal ID, you can cross the border from Red Lake, Minnesota, to Red Lake, Manitoba without a passport (I'm not too sure on whether or not this is true because I don't live in Red Lake, but I thought it was too cool to pass up. I just switched the roles so instead of MN bugging Manitoba, it's the opposite. If I'm wrong...well, I'm still using that theory because it's epic).

5 - "Miigwech" is Ojibwe for "Thank you"

6 – I have full knowledge on this. As mentioned in Note 2, 'savage' is used as a vulgar nickname for Native Americans. However, the only comparison that virtually everyone will understand why MN calls RL a sav is this: 'savage' to Natives is like the N-word to black people. We can use it amongst each other as a joke and without anyone getting mad, but if someone outside our race calls us "savs" or "n-ggas," the line has been crossed. I'm not saying this goes for just white people either; I mean if _anyone _non-Native calls a Native person that, we get instantly pissed (unless one is that close to the name-caller. Anyone still wondering why this story has ideologically sensitive material?)

7 – Ojibwe for "Red Lake, come here."

8 – For the Anishinaabe people in Northern Minnesota (maybe even with people from other Minnesotan places), we tend to say "Hohwah" when we're surprised at something (An example would be Italy's "Vee~")

A/N I hate when notes are as long as the story ;_; I probably wrote England's character wrong, but ehh... (Completely irrelevant, but this is my favorite chapter so far xD)


	5. French Bread

A/N HAJEAR! You read and reviewed this story on FFN~ I'm so happy :D Unlike the last chapter, this chapter is set back when Minnesota is getting used to being under France's rule (Chibisota is back, yay~) Think of this as a -mistimed- continuation of chapter 3. One more thing, if anyone wants to see Minnesota as an adult, I've replaced the link in my bio to a newer picture of Mnisota! (Special thanks to Hajear for that :D)

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers or OC!Minnesota.

n.n

_Prompt 5: "French Bread"_

_It was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, and yet it still couldn't replace frybread; that was reason enough for Minnesota to hate France's famous bread._

n.n

It took nearly a month until France settled on Minnesota's land. The nation had to bring his men back home and collect new ones for support when the blond declared Minnesota as his own. He'd wanted to build a grand house fit for royalty and aristocrats and was determined to get his way—in the end, France did. Minnesota didn't resist the elder's markings on his territory; why would he? France was – although extremely touchy-feely – nice and told the boy that he'd act as the father Minnesota never truly had.

So the boy never got sore when the blond constructed his large home in his northern land. Minnesota would simply watch from behind the brush, quiet and anxious to see the finale of the construction. He didn't have anywhere else to be at during the day—he was too shamefaced to be in Sakima's presence by now. The feeling of hairs being ripped off of his scalp sent a cold shiver down the boy's spine as he grimaced. 'And anyway, France told me that Sakima didn't want to see me. I was gone for too long again, and Sakima just didn't want me around no more,' Minnesota reminded himself time and time again.

He would pound this into his head until he believed it. So far, that had yet to happen.

"Ahaha~ Clotaire, I know you're hiding around here somewhere," that smooth voice called out from the distance. "I think you've been waiting to hear this for awhile, but alas~ I've got a new home with you!" Minnesota's head snapped in place and his eyes popped open to see the finished house. He slowly crawled out of his hiding place as a soft admiring gasp escaped his lips.

There stood before him a grand mansion of palatial standards.

A nice mixture of navy blue and the sun that beamed and glistened the wet paint sent Minnesota in a tizzy as he forced himself passed France's lovingly tight embrace and ran towards the large house with an anxious look in his eyes. However, before he could take in the sight thoroughly, France's strong arms snaked around his small waist and hoisted the boy into the air with a laugh. Minnesota, on the other hand, wasn't amused at all. Ignoring the urge to scream in the blond man's face – the Frenchman had gotten used to Minnesota constant temper tantrums now – he instead chose to flail his arms and pray to the Creator(1) that he'd be lucky and punch France, hard, in the jaw.

A wild punch hit France square in the jaw, to which Minnesota grinned mischievously as he anticipated being set down—'Damn it, why didn't he flinch?' Minnesota thought furiously when the blond instead flung the boy over his shoulder and began walking towards the new house, not once acknowledging the perfectly round bruise that was forming on his already reddening face. "France, put me down!" Minnesota wailed angrily as he struggled in his new caretaker's strong grip. France, however, smiled and didn't say a word as the two entered the large home. His men were strewn about the entire first floor and possibly even the second floor ('Damn, this is a huge place.').

"Well Clotaire," the Frenchman said amorously as he set Minnesota down and strolled casually into the kitchen, "are you hungry? I'm going to make bread." Suddenly, Minnesota lost all feelings of annoyance and his auburn eyes lit up in excitement. His stomach grumbled rather obnoxiously and France chuckled to himself quietly. "Settle yourself next to Corbin. He's the one with the cards at the table." Minnesota glanced up to see a strange sight—a man with a cheery grin and a mess of curly red locks sat at a round glass table. Odd pieces of paper with weird symbols and pictures were on the face of them.

Scrunching his brow in a curious way, the brunette slowly sauntered towards the table, leaving France to his duties at the wooden stove. Minnesota climbed up on the empty chair next to the redhead, Corbin. The man looked down at his little visitor and gave him a cheeky grin. "Bonjour," Corbin greeted. "je suis Corbin. Et vous(2)?" Minnesota coldly ignored the ginger's greeting and snatched a few of the playing cards in his hands, staring at them intensely. Corbin, in turn, brushed off the cold shoulder the brunette showed and began to shuffle the cards he had. "Monsieur," the redhead breathed in his thick accent, "if you would like, I can show you how to play. I just need those cards first."

For the next half an hour, the duo bonded immensely. While the little territory was admittedly having fun with the ginger, he couldn't help but wonder why he was stuck in this position: he was suddenly 'Clotaire Beaulieu' instead of 'Mnisota,' he was in the hands of a certain Francis Bonnefoy, and he was bonding with a frog's frog. An odd feeling circulated in his heart as the image of Sakima and the touch of his half-eaten face on his fingertips shot through his body. All this occurred for no given reason—the binoojing was just having fun!

Just as he was about to get frustrated and shove the cards into Corbin's wickedly, friendly, freckly face, France's soothing tone called from the kitchen. "Minnesota~ I've finished making bread!" It was the call of a warrior. In the end, Minnesota did end up shoving the cards into the redhead's face, although it didn't hold the distressing pain that the boy wanted him to feel. However, as Minnesota raced to the kitchen, the scent of what he wanted to be frybread hadn't filled his nostrils like he'd assumed. What went through his nose was a sickly sweet aroma that was nothing like he'd ever experienced before. Upon entering the room, it only got worse. "Here, mon garçon," Francis proclaimed with a proud grin. "Careful now, it's hot~"

In front of Minnesota sat a pile of oddly shaped pieces of—no, _pathetic _excuses for oddly shaped pieces of bread. They were large and looked fluffy. Much too fluffy, in Minnesota's opinion. 'What, my first day livin' with this guy, and he can't even know how to make frybread?' Not wanting to have France's hurt eyes bore into his, Minnesota reached out for a piece. 'Oh well, I guess I can choke this down. I bet it is frybread. I mean, what else kind of bread would it be? Wild rice?' Snickering at his own little joke, Minnesota brought the crispy bread up to his mouth and took a relatively large bite.

He chewed for a minute. 'Weird, it doesn't have any sort of grease,' he thought to himself with disparagement. Minnesota stared at France with bewilderment, much to the latter's surprise, before promptly dropping the bread on the ground and stomping on it. France stayed silent for a tense moment. Minnesota, on the other hand, kicked away the beaten bread and crossed his arms with a pout. Suddenly, things got loud. Fast.

"WHAT? You dare dispel the delicacy of France, the French bread?" France shrieked in a horridly high-pitched voice. Minnesota nodded, not at all fazed by the older man's reaction. The men in the other rooms grew silent upon France's dramatic meltdown before continuing with their activities. France, in turn, grabbed another piece of French bread, a knife, and some butter and began slathering the slice in the yellow substance. He held it out to Minnesota with hopeful azure eyes, while the latter narrowed his.

"Fuck you, where's the frybread?" was the binoojing's response to France. Immediately heartbroken, the blonde fell slowly and dramatically to his knees and hung his head over the floor, emitting a soft sniffle. Minnesota rolled his eyes at first and tried to ignore the elder's quiet sobs, noticing that everyone else in the house was used to their leader's melodramatic antics. A few moments of crying passed by and with a sigh, Minnesota tried but failed to comfortingly pat France on the shoulder, though he never once apologized. ('Hey, it's not my fault the frog don't know how to cook.')

n.n

1 – For the Anishinaabe people, The Creator is our "God," but The Creator is not a man nor woman, so we don't refer to The Creator as "He" or "She." It's merely The Creator (I know for a fact that other tribes use "The Great Spirit" as well)

2 – French for "Hello, I am Corbin. And you?"

A/N A quick note, the last line "Hey, it's not my fault the frog don't know how to cook" was written intentionally because of Minnesota's slang. He doesn't say "doesn't," he says "don't" because that's the way it is up north lol


	6. Mathieu

A/N Ahaha~ I finally get to introduce a young Canada! d: Seeing a picture of him when he was little, I was all, "Oh, he was just cute! _I must write him._" ...On another note, I wrote his name as 'Mathieu' instead of 'Matthew' because it makes better sense while he's living with France and all, with the French spelling. (More nonsensical nonsense, I wrote this while listening to Big River Cree's "Stand By Me." It was my inspiration for this one-shot d:)

n.n

_Prompt 6: "Mathieu"  
>Minnesota got along well with his shy older roommate, who only asked to be remembered as Mathieu or Canada.<em>

n.n

A soft sigh escaped Minnesota's lips as the boy's sleeping frame shifted ever so quietly. He was curled up into a ball, his black hair nappy and loose from the tight braid that came out during the middle of the night. Although the sun's bright beams of light shone on his face, Minnesota remained asleep, too tired to sit up and rub his eyes. France had left the boy four days prior, promising that when he returned, he would bring back a surprise. Minnesota cracked open a glazed over eye as the memory of France leaving after his promise ran through his mind. "His surprise better be learning the art of frying bread," he muttered under his breath as a smirk crept its way on his face.

Sitting up slowly, his back leaned against the wooden headboard and he emitted a yawn. Without France around, barking orders in his saccharine voice, Minnesota often stayed up way passed his usual bedtime and wandered far out into the forest, which resulted in sleeping in late in the morning—if he _ever _got up in the morning. This morning was different, however; Minnesota felt as though France was going to return that day and he didn't want the Frenchman to be disappointed in the scruffy appearance his new found 'son' took on over the days he was gone.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Minnesota's eyes were shut before he slowly got up on his feet. Hunching over awkwardly, he made his way towards the door and left, leaving behind a messy bed. His feet shuffled across the slick floor noisily while he entered the silent kitchen. Opening his eyes at last, Minnesota groaned – along with his stomach – when it hit him that he'd miscalculated his rations and he had no food left for the morning. Or more loosely said—he had nothing to eat until France came back.

"Shit," he grumbled with a stern look, "I should just go back to bed if there ain't nothin' to do." His nose scrunched as he stuck out his lip in a pout. "But I'm starving..." Defeated because he knew he had no choice but to wait for France, Minnesota walked away from the confines of the kitchen, for the sight of that awful, fluffy, _tasteless_ French bread was getting more and more tempting by the second. And no way in Hell was Minnesota choking down the terrible filth. If it was considered a meal, it was going to have to be the absolute last resort.

Clicking his tongue, Minnesota grabbed a deck of cards that were set up neatly on the edge of the counter. "Man, I wish Corbin didn't have to go. We coulda played Bullshit(1) today," he mused as he settled himself at the mahogany dining table. He shuffled the cards carelessly, which went awry—all 52 of the cards slipped away from his fingertips and rather dramatically made their descent onto the floor. While he was vexed that he had to pick up the cards by his lonesome, Minnesota was relieved to have something to do that would take his mind off of food. Sighing with annoyance, the boy dropped to his knees and very slowly, he peeled the cards off the floor.

This continued on for the next hour, with Minnesota 'accidentally' dropping a few of the cards just so he had to pick them back up again. When that started to get on his nerves, Minnesota came up with the idea to sort them by the symbols on the faces of the thin rectangles of specialized paper and that kept him busy for an additional twenty minutes. After that, the binoojing gave up on the cards and set the deck neatly on the table. Stretching, Minnesota hopped down from his seat at the table and started to walk around to get the pins-and-needles feeling out of his leg.

Almost instantly, a loud clacking at the front door sounded throughout the palatial home. Minnesota straightened up and quietly crept over to the front door, wary of any strangers that may be on the other side. His fear of peculiar men was put to an early grave, however, as the familiar obsequious voice of none other than the French Republic himself sang through the cracks of the door. "Clotaire? Clotaire~ It's Francis, I have to introduce you to someone," France's muffled voice stated patiently. With a puzzled look twisting onto his face, Minnesota unlocked the door and swung it open fast. 'Apparently, _too _fast,' the brunette concluded with a smirk when the heavy wooden door crashed into the elder's knee.

"Ouch!" France slapped one of his slender hands onto the bruising knee cap as the door leisurely creaked back into position by Minnesota's feet. The boy kept mischievously grinning all the while the blond tried to regain his composure. With a perverse smile of his own, France haltingly inhaled before speaking, "Monsieur Clotaire," another abrupt breath, "I would like you to meet mon autre fils(2), Mathieu Williams. He's going to be staying with us; he'll be your next-door roommate upstairs~ Isn't that nice?" Minnesota stood there as his chestnut eyes darted around the Frenchman's looming figure – 'Who the hell is he talking about?'

"B-bonjour," an unbelievably calm, subdued voice came from behind France, "je suis M-Mathieu ou Mattie. Et v-vous(3)?" Furrowing his brow, the small territory peered around France's waist and located the owner of the voice. He was no older than eleven and was, undoubtedly, a clean-cut boy who had an abnormally large curl that extended noticeably from his wavy, sandy brown hair. In his arms, the older boy cradled a Polar bear cub, which was fast asleep in his master's arms. Minnesota also noted that the boy quivered unintentionally as he stared at the newborn.

"... I really have no idea what you just said, niij(4)," the brunette admitted in his accented English. France, sensing the confusion between his two 'sons,' chortled unenthusiastically.

"Minnesota," the blond mustered up, his voice still cracked from the pain his knee experienced only moments before, "Mathieu introduced himself to you." Minnesota stared blankly into France's oceanic orbs while an invisible Mathieu looked on. "So... aren't you going to return the favor?" France inquired with a hint of puzzlement. Rolling his eyes with disdain, Minnesota glanced over at Mathieu, who watched timidly.

"Boozhoo," the binoojing responded in a gruff tone, "Mnisota ndishnikaaz(5)." France's fiery eyes bore into Minnesota's scalp and the boy swallowed down an apology. Clearing his throat, he said in English, "Hey, I'm Minnesota, but I guess my other name is Clotaire," the boy introduced himself in a proper tone. An idea started building up in his mind as the brunette thought of a certain question for his caretaker. "'Ay France." The nation looked down with a quizzical glint in his eyes. "How come I have two names, but Mattie has one?" His new older brother stiffened as crimson feathered his cheeks while France let out a relaxed chuckle.

"Oh, Mathieu _does _have a territorial name that partners with his mortal name," France asserted in his soothing voice. The Native boy glared at the Frenchman, waiting impatiently for an answer. "This is Canada, my first son. He's a good little boy, as are you," the elder chimed proudly. "You boys are going to be famous in the New World sometime in the future. I just know it," France continued while dreams of his boys being wrapped up in expensive silk and fabrics for somehow changing the world.

Minnesota shook his head while scowling at the nation's fluttering daydreams. Canada, on the other hand, couldn't help but smile naively as he gently pet his cub's fur. "I really hope so, all I want is for someone to remember me," the Canadian murmured softly to himself. The brunette blinked and he turned his body to face his new 'brother.' The light haired boy gave the territory a wary smile as he giggled nervously.

A radical thought raced through Minnesota's mind before he tugged on Mathieu's elbow and forced him to bend down to the territory's level. With a wicked expression, the little boy declared, "You'll never have to worry about that, Canada, because _I'll _never forget you. You can believe that." In all honesty, Minnesota wasn't quite too sure on whether or not he really was going to remember Mathieu all the time. The Canadian looked as though he was shy and cautious of his surroundings; Minnesota didn't really like people like that. Sakima would often punish the children in the tribe in order for them to speak up for themselves. Thankfully, Minnesota never had to worry about that—he was the one always being punished for speaking up (more specifically, arguing with Sakima about anything the chief said).

However, Minnesota felt different about this towards Canada. The boy gave off a comfortable aura, once you got passed his fragile appearance and incessant stuttering. Plus, his eyes were a nice mix of cerulean and violet, and Minnesota didn't want to feel guilty by putting him down the way he did to France and making his adoptive brother cry. He really hated it when people cried, but he despised boys that did it, even though Sakima told him it was a cleansing of the soul(6). If he was going to hang out with Canada for an undetermined amount of time, then he had to bring Canada out of his sensitive shell and into the real world of hunting and running.

"Why, thank you, Monsieur Clotaire," Canada said in a grateful, yet timid voice, bringing Minnesota out of his musings. "No one's really said that to me before... you're the first, actually." The light haired boy then hung his head as he laughed shakily at his confession.

Oh yes, Minnesota had much to teach to his pitiful, sensitive older 'brother.' But that could wait for another day.

n.n

1 – OK, this is my favorite card game to play, but I'm not too keen on the history of it. If you've never played Bullshit before, you have to play it ASAP. I'm not good at all on teaching stuff, so you'll have to look up the rules online or something, but it's like a game of deceit; you have to keep a poker face when slapping down a card(s). It's pretty complicated to explain, but once you get the hang of it, it's all good.

2 – French for "My other son"

3 – French for "H-hello, I am Mathieu or Mattie. And y-you?"

4 – Ojibwe word for "brother/friend" (You may have recognized it from an earlier note for the word "niijii," which means "my brother/friend."). This word is used as a slang term than anything else.

5 – Ojibwe for "Hi, my name is Minnesota."

6 – "The soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears." -Native American proverb

A/N ._.U I really don't like how this ended. But whatever, it's finished d: I'll probably revise these chapters later on in life. For now, though, it'll be left as is.


	7. Homesick

A/N More continuation of this story, picking up with prompts 7 and 8. Here goes nothing (:

Disclaimer: I don't own APH or OC!Minnesota

n.n

_Prompt 7: "Homesick"  
>Minnesota missed everything about being free: he missed his long ebony hair, missed the praise and fun he had with his people—he missed his old life.<em>

n.n

"_M-Minnesota! What happened in here?"_

"_Oh no, what did Minnesota do now?"_

"_Don't bother Clotaire tonight, Mathieu, he was a bad boy last night."_

Minnesota's days at France's home often started out and ended like this. An expensive vase would lay in a million shattered pieces on the kitchen floor—Minnesota did it. Mud and grass tracked onto the opaque white carpet at the front door—Minnesota did it. Flour and river water were speckled about on the counter in a failed attempt to make frybread—Minnesota did it. While the last example was something that only he would do, the boy had it with getting in trouble all the time.

Whenever something went awry in the two story house, France would always blame Minnesota, even if it was something that couldn't have been prevented, such as the frybread incident. France didn't know how to cook his favorite food, and the brunette wasn't about to go for another week without it. He felt like that ruining his 'perfect' kitchen with real food was the only option the frog left him. Thus, this morning's cooking failure was born.

Minnesota woke up much earlier than the others in the house and quietly slipped out the front door with a bucket one of France's men left behind after the construction of his new home. He found his way to the nearest riverbank and filled the bucket up to the edge with the water Minnesota deemed 'safe.' He waddled home with the bucket nearly being drug across the trail the entire way. During the walk home, he compared his new life to his old one.

His heart suddenly ached as Minnesota began to remember all the times he lived with his former chiefs, and their chiefs, and their chiefs. Although he couldn't necessarily pick a 'favorite' chief, the boy was fond of Sakima because the elder taught him more about his kind the most. He remembered when Sakima first began to braid his unruly hair; he loved how his black hair danced with the cool breeze that wild summer night. A smile tugged on the corners of his lips when he remembered coming back to the tribe one day—it was amazing because that was the first day Minnesota was allowed to go out hunting with the Anishinaabe warriors and helped them capture a wild moose. Oh! the praise he received that day from everyone – Sakima had even cracked a smile at the good work Minnesota did and personally invited the boy into his wigwam that night.

The azure house came into sight then, and Minnesota snapped out of his thoughts and waddled faster towards the house. Making frybread this morning was another perk—he wanted to relive a moment from his life prior to living with France. Upon opening the front door, Minnesota had made it back before the red sun's beams crept up from the horizon all the way.

"Aw shit," Minnesota grunted when he realized he'd forgotten how to start up the wooden stove. Slapping his hands together, the white flour sprinkled onto the floor as the boy reached out for the bucket of river water next to the feet of the chair he stood on. "Hmm, I'm not sure how much water Nindaanis uses for this," Minnesota said aloud when he examined the clear liquid thoroughly, trying to remember what the young woman would do with the water.

Shrugging, the brunette forced the heavy bucket onto the counter. It landed with a metallic clank and beads of water splashed on the white substance. "I think I remember. She just dumped this all over the flour," Minnesota pushed the bucket over, spilling all of its contents on the counter and floor, "and she said to wait for the bread to rise." Content with the creamy mess he made, the territory jumped onto the wet floor and carefully made his way out of the kitchen.

With satisfaction filling his stomach with butterflies, Minnesota bolted up the grand staircase to anxiously pass the time away in his room. He wasn't sure when the bread would rise, but he'd come back and check on it every now and then. 'Maybe if he's not on his man-moon, France'll be surprised and will actually let me cook frybread from now on!' Minnesota pondered excitedly while stepping up the ascending stairs, a smile gluing on his face with each step.

And was France surprised. Only an hour passed since Minnesota started making his early morning snack when France awoke and stretched his stiff body by crawling out of his warm bed and decided to give his sons – particularly Minnesota – a break from his exquisite meals and cook them something easy and simple: flapjacks. It was something that didn't upset Minnesota's stomach and brought Canada's taste buds back to delicious simplicity. He shuffled down the stairs with a yawn and reached for a hair band that was wrapped around his wrist to pull his tresses back as he approached the kitchen entrance.

A petrified shriek traveled throughout the palatial building, waking both a tired Canadian and Native American. "M-MINNESOTA!" France screeched from the 1st floor ferociously. Minnesota's eyes popped open at the mention of his name and he clumsily hopped onto his feet and frantically raced down the stairs. He rushed into the kitchen while rubbing his eyes. It took a minute for Minnesota to glance up at France, but when he did, he stiffened in shock.

Caked on the floor and carpet was his attempt at making frybread. The binoojing felt like slapping himself—'Shit, I fell asleep and forgot about the bread.' His auburn eyes met the sight of a bare foot tapping in the drying mixture and he reluctantly raised his head. His blond caretaker had his arms crossed tightly against his chest. Red stained his cheeks from fury and France's breathing was labored as rage fumed in his pupils hazily, forcing Minnesota to gulp down a whine.

"Explain now, monsieur." Minnesota's eyes widened in fear as his throat croaked—how was he going to get out of this? "I'm waiting!" France barked furiously. Perhaps it was the early morning shock that had the blond nation so red with anger and while the territory was the one to blame, Minnesota had had enough of it all. And he was going to make it known that he was sick of all the blame.

"Fuckin' A, I hate this life! I hate e'rything about it; the food, the clothes, the people! E'RYTHING!" Minnesota shrieked at the top of his lungs. His Canadian brother stood silently behind him, a look of fright quivering in his doe eyes. Minnesota could sense his presence and he whipped around to grab Canada's dainty arm. "You never get mad at Mattie for anything that happens here! What, is it because—because I'm not _white _like you?" Canada's shoulders slumped as he hung his head. 'The first time I'm remembered as an individual... and I'm used as a guinea pig for accusations,' he thought bitterly.

France's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets once the words left the boy's lips. A cold bubbling his veins pricked at the blond's skin as hurt flashed through his oceanic eyes for a second. Then, his piqued appearance resurfaced and he slowly stepped towards Minnesota. Scared inwardly, the brunette released Canada's limb and shot daggers at the older nation. "F-fous le camp, France(1)! What do you think you're doing?" France snatched the boy by his wrist and marched out of the kitchen, handling the boy like he was a prisoner of war. Minnesota resisted and tried to pull his arm away from the blond. When that failed to get him anywhere, he began clawing at the rough hand, drawing blood after a few scratches.

"Assez!" France snarled before sitting down on the luxurious couch that lonely sat in the living room. He pulled Minnesota forward and – after a few minutes of wrestling – managed to fling the boy's body over his lap. Canada watched from far away, a stinging sensation suddenly pricking at his bottom as he knew what was about to come. With his hand raised high, France brought it down to the territory's rump.

A shriek echoed throughout the empty halls of the house. Minnesota jerked around as his butt stung. "G-gaawiin(2)!" the boy cried out as he tried flipping his body around. France's grasp on his back kept him in his lap, however, and another blow to his butt came too quickly. Thinking about it later, the binoojing shouldn't have considered this to be a painful punishment—when Sakima whipped the back of his legs, he always left behind some sort of bloody cut that scarred later on, whereas a mere spanking left behind a temporary red hand print on the cheeks.

Still, being punished using a method that was relatively unheard of in the tribes across his land was a scary thing.

And as the hand continued to be lifted and lowered onto the sensitive part of Minnesota's body, he silently cursed France before closing his eyes and pretended that he was snuggled cozily into Sakima's protective arms, reliving the best moment in his life in the midst of his first spanking.

n.n

1 – French for "Fuck off, France!" (Interesting tidbit: I had originally wrote that Corbin to teach Minnesota how to swear in French a chapter back, but it soon became a 'deleted' scene, as it had nothing to do with the story. His swearing in French is reminiscent of that irrelevant drabble o-o")

2 – Ojibwe for "No"

A/N I didn't know how to end this, so I just typed it up without really thinking. That's why it's rushed ._.


	8. Runaway

Disclaimer: I don't own APH or OC!Minnesota.

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_Prompt 8: "Runaway"  
>He ran away from France's house once and it was quite possibly the worst thing that he ever put himself and France through.<em>

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Canada sat awkwardly on Minnesota's unfixed bed, holding his polar bear cub close to his chest. His little brother was stomping around his room, creating an uproar in the small room. The wavy haired boy timidly darted his eyes around the room, a feeling of absolute guilt forming in the pit of his stomach. Minnesota, on the other hand, ripped out the ugly suits that France made him wear all the time from their places in the drawers and promptly threw them on the wooden floor. Tears were still trembling on the sides of his eyes when the scene from only hours before played in his head.

He remember how his body jolted at the first smack across his butt. He could still feel when the hot salty tears trickled down his face as he'd grasped onto the couch cushion for support. The repeating smacks had gone on for what seemed like hours—it was only at Canada's quiet insistence that France released Minnesota. Being set back on his feet, he winced. His father figure had opened his mouth to say something, but Minnesota didn't give him a chance—he used all of his remaining strength to kick the blond – hard – in the shin before running up to the safety of his room.

Canada had followed him closely; he didn't want the boy to do anything that would hurt him. Plus, he felt guilty for not stopping the spanking sooner. Minnesota was only a boy, after all. And while Minnesota shouldn't have made that huge mess in the kitchen, Canada knew how he felt—living with someone you barely knew was an overwhelming feeling. 'You yearn for your old life, yet you don't really want to leave the new life behind,' he thought solemnly to himself. The sound of the boy stomping on the clothes brought him back to reality and he glanced up. "M-Minnesota? What are you doing?"

"The fuck does it look like I'm doin'?" Minnesota snapped bitterly, kicking away the skeleton suits(1) that lay scattered on the ground. "I'm leavin' this place! Fuck France and his ol' pervy punishments!" He added the latter in a shrill voice, hoping that the blond downstairs heard him. Canada gasped and reached out for Minnesota.

"You're going to... to run away? Where are you going to go?" he questioned nervously. Tears glimmered in his softened eyes; Minnesota looked away from his brother, not wanting to stare into those sad orbs. Instead, he grabbed his old pair of moccasins that sat underneath all of the suits and put them. Canada clutched his chest and gently shoved his polar cub off of his lap. "M-Minnesota, you can't be serious. It was just a-a spanking! I've been spanked many times before. And don't cha know that it's a completely different world out there—"

"And it's a world that I grew up knowing, Mathieu," the boy finished abruptly. _"_And _don't cha know _that I know where I come from?" The caramel haired Canadian quieted for a moment before attempting to speak up again. Minnesota, in turn, shut him up once more. "I know what I'm doing, Mattie. And I know I ain't takin' this shit again." Canada lowered his eyes. All was quiet in the room once again, the only audible sound was of Minnesota's feet shuffling about and Canada's soft breathing. At long last, the older of the two finally found the right words to say.

"... I see." A soft smile crept on his lips, despite all of the internal emotions he experienced at the moment. "Then, I guess I won't be able to change your mind." Minnesota's eyes widened a bit at the words, but he shook it off. "But... where are you going exactly?" The binoojing shrugged slightly and pulled his hair back into a loose ponytail.

"Wherever the wind takes me, I guess," he muttered quietly, more to himself than anything. The two remained in a long, tense silence. No one wanted to break the ice for several minutes; finally, Minnesota scratched the back of his head and took a deep breath. "I'm leavin' now. Later, Mattie," he said softly before he walked out of the room. He shut the door behind him and sauntered down the stairs lazily, trying to elongate his time in the house. Once he reached the last step, Minnesota got a good view of France leaning onto a couch for support as he nursed his bruising shin.

Minnesota didn't move; he wasn't too sure how mad France was at him. Slowly, courage began building up when Minnesota remembered that it was the blonde who provoked him into doing something violent—he was the one that started it. Straightening his posture, the brunette cleared his throat obnoxiously loud. France glanced over at the stairs with no emotion in his azure eyes. "I'm leaving, so if you'll move..." Minnesota started as he marched towards the door. France tilted his head curiously.

"Where are you going, mon garçon?" The little boy was taken aback by France's dulcet tone, but thought nothing more of it.

"I'm going home," he said crisply, "and there's nothing you can do about it." The quizzical look on the blond's face quickly spiraled into a stunned expression. Minnesota slid past the Frenchman and kept his head lowered, trying to contain a scowl. "I'm gonna go live Sakima again, out in the wilderness—something you wouldn't know nothin' about." Minnesota propped the door open and took a step onto the paved trail. He whirled around to face France one more time, who oddly had a look of surprise on his face. "And if you're gonna try to find, then... good luck, fuck-o!" Minnesota turned on his heels and promptly took off running towards the thick brush that surrounded France's house.

He didn't once stop running, either, and never bothered to look back. With each step, Minnesota was further and further out in unfamiliar territory, despite him having owned the land. His sudden courage dwindled to a small miniscule amount and Minnesota finally slowed to a casual walk after a long bout of sprinting. Although his breathing was heavy, the image of France scolding him using perverse punishments made his tummy bubble in disgust. But, the image of France worrying his curly head off also flashed through his mind, and Minnesota couldn't help but feel contrite. Hastily, he just shrugged it off as nothing more than a temporary emotion.

"To hell with him too," the binoojiing thought fiercely and aloud. "I hope he suffers; he can go jump his stubble ass off a cliff for all I care!" He stopped in his tracks then and crossed his arms in a pout. Deep down in his heart, the territory didn't want to have to leave France in such a predicament, but he couldn't stand being the scapegoat when something was out of order at the house. Leaving was the only rational solution to everyone's problems, Minnesota decided. His heart fell a tad at the truth, but he continued his voyage into the unknown parts of his land.

The sun was at its highest point in the day when he found a large lake to take a rest and bask in the new found warmth that the day had to offer. Slipping off his moccasins, Minnesota dipped his feet into the cool water and shuddered as his feet were enveloped in a pleasantly chilled cage of fluids. He sighed in satisfaction as he rolled his head back. Being back in the wild felt so liberating.

His tranquil moment was disturbed when a muffled crack sounded from behind. Woozy from the déjà vu, Minnesota lethargically looked back towards the moving brush. 'Look, I've been taken away once before, I know how this all works. You say you love me, you'll take care of me, you'll never lay a hand on me, and then all my dreams have turned to shit because you broke your promises. Now go away,' Minnesota prepared in his mind bitterly, readying himself for the possible intruder. Just as he was about to open his mouth to repeat his mental speech, something small and fuzzy crawled out of the green bushes and cautiously crept closer towards him.

Minnesota whipped around all the way and couldn't help but smile at the creature. Everything he thought of saying before disappeared into the back of his mind when the creature came into full sight: it was a black bear cub, wandering about aimlessly. It gave him an impertinent look, but nonetheless, the brunette urged it to come closer. "Mukwa(2)!" Minnesota squeaked in joy and patted the ground in front of him, wanting the bear to sit by him. 'If Canada tamed a polar bear cub, what's the difference in training a black bear?' Minnesota thought naïvely as he reached out to touch the cub.

"That's it, come to your master," Minnesota muttered gently when the fur rubbed against his fingers. "I wonder what your name should be..." As he continued to pet and think of a name for the creature, a crunching of leaves and grass was heard from the forest. Minnesota was lost in his thoughts again, and wouldn't have noticed the sound even if it was breathing on his neck. A growl emitted from the green—at that, the binoojiing stiffened. A large black head peered out of the bushes, its face twisted in anger and blood lust.

Minnesota's chestnut eyes widened at the sight. He gulped audibly. Sakima's voice boomed in his ears in a mocking tone, 'Stay away from a cub, negoosis(3), because its mother never strays far behind.' Minnesota so badly wanted to smack himself for not remembering this important fact. The cub tilted its head before it backed away from the boy. Its mother growled threateningly at Minnesota and slowly crawled out of the brush. Minnesota remembered seeing stars before darkness consumed his thoughts.

-.-

The first thing Minnesota felt was ice. He was encased in wet ice—'Weird, what the hell happened?' He groaned as he barely managed to crack open an eye. The first thing he saw was France. His tresses were tousled and dirty, his face not so much better. His clothes were ripped, and yet, the blond noticed Minnesota's awakening and greeted him with a weak smile. 'H...he's smiling? Even after it looks like he got out of a fight, he's _smiling_?' Minnesota pondered.

"I've been worse," France answered. His grin only broadened when the little boy in his arms gave him a bewildered stare. "You don't need to worry, mon fils, I only got a bit... shaken up by the bear. I'm more worried about you—you'd fainted from shock of it all and landed in the river. If I hadn't made it here in time-" France shook his head, a softened smile tugging on his bleeding lips. "But I did make it in time, so I guess there's no need to worry about anything anymore."

Minnesota lay still in France's arms, allowing the words to sink in. If he hadn't made it in time, then... Minnesota would've ceased to be a territory? The boy furrowed his brow. 'After everything I said and did to Francis today...and he still comes and saves me?' He stopped thinking and abruptly buried his face in the older nation's chest, wrapping his arms as far as he could around France. Stunned at first, France warmed up right away and held the slightly trembling boy back. No words were spoken, but Minnesota's tears apologized for him. The Frenchman grinned gently as he rubbed the boy's wet hair.

_'Mon fils, je te pardonne. Je'taime(4).'_

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1 – According to my flawless research, skeleton suits are these really homely one-sy suits that little boys in France used to wear. In fact, they were, at the time, fashionable (These aren't meant to be mixed up with skeleton suits people wear around Halloween)

2 – Ojibwe for "bear"

3 – Ojibwe for "my son." I didn't thoroughly address this when Sakima called Minnesota that a few chapters back, so I figured I'd do it now.

4 – French for 'My son, I forgive you. I love you.'

A/N Rereading this, this was pretty cheesy, but I don't care xD I finally got this finished. This was the hardest chapter to write ;_;


	9. Language Barrier

A/N This prompt takes place, oh say, a few weeks after the running away incident of Minnesota's. (Yay, these notes are getting shorter~)

Disclaimer: I don't own APH or OC!Minnesota

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_Prompt 9: "Language Barrier"  
>Even though Minnesota had a hard time getting used to France's language, the one thing he had memorized was the last thing the blonde heard each night; "Je t'aime."<em>

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France sat at the kitchen table, a look of exhausting burning in his eyes. Canada and Minnesota were running about the house for the past few weeks now, often times with Canada's polar bear cub in tow ('Kumakichi, Kumahaha, Kuma-something...'). A large mess accumulated in their rooms, which the boys forgot to clean nearly everyday, but France let it go because the two were doing other productive things to worry about how disorganized their rooms became. Nowadays, however, the boys weren't really doing anything that would benefit themselves in the future.

He gave Canada a break because he'd known the boy when he was a newborn—Minnesota was a different case. He was still a newborn – not that France complained – but his knowledge on the French culture could only go so far (how the boy managed to say 'Fuck off' in French was still a mystery). He'd already gotten Minnesota plenty of skeleton suits when the boy arrived at his new home, so he was already up to date on the latest fashion in France. He barely understood what "Fous le camp" meant, so he knew just a bit of French. 'Maybe I can start there,' France thought joyfully while his two sons ran about the hallways noisily.

"Clotaire~ I need to speak with you." Minnesota screeched to a stop in front of the kitchen door. Canada had followed closely behind and unintentionally bumped into his brother. "Mathieu, if you will, we need a few moments alone," France hinted. Canada nodded and, picking up his cub, walked away in the confines with the living room. France smiled and motioned for Minnesota to come closer; the boy took a step forward with a questioning expression. "Minnesota, may I ask you something?" The boy rolled his eyes, but kept silent. France took that as a 'yes.' "How much of my language do you know?" The boy looked thoughtful for a moment before replying; "I don't know shit about your language." France's face faltered at the profanity, but he reluctantly allowed it to slide. "Well, would you like to know?"

"About what?" Minnesota smirked; the cocky brat knew what he meant, but he wanted to push the man's buttons.

"About my language."

"What about it?" Now France held a grim look on his face, which amused Minnesota. Despite the cheerful and proud attitude France had for the brunette, the boy often tormented the blond with his annoying, albeit witty retorts. It bugged Francis to no end, but he was determined to tough it out. After all, he was the one that made the rules in the house, not Minnesota.

"You know what I mean. Would you like me to teach you the language of love~?" France responded in a rapturous tone. He wasn't in the mood to play games with the boy, not today. Minnesota narrowed his eyes at the proposal. A perverse grin frolicked on the man's lips. 'Come on boy, I need an answer today.' As if answering his thought, Minnesota waved his little hand in a mock prima donna style.

"I suppose I have to..." he murmured in feigned irritation. France's smile became heartfelt and he happily grasped Minnesota's hand and hoisted the boy onto his lap. The brunette yelped and began flailing around in the nation's arms. "What the hell are you doin'?" the boy demanded to know. Francis chuckled lightly to himself as he pet Minnesota's head.

"We should learn as soon as possible," he hinted gingerly. Minnesota quit thrashing but gave the man a weird look. "How would you feel if you learned your first lesson today?" The binoojing's head slanted to the right as his face contorted in puzzlement. Today? But why so soon? He wasn't going anywhere again, not after what had happened a few weeks ago. 'Maybe he wants to bring me back to his homeland, since I've never been there before,' Minnesota pondered blithely. He didn't want to seem too excited about this, however; he had to retain his stoic nature by simply nodding his head at the question. France damn near squealed ('And he's the one taking care of me?') and set the boy down before preparing for their linguistics lesson of the day.

-.-

Minnesota sat uncomfortably on the wooden chair at the kitchen table; he wriggled about from time to time as he impatiently waited for France and Canada to enter the room. Actually, he wasn't too sure on whether or not Canada was going to show up—France was busy trying to convince the boy to join Minnesota on his ascent of learning the self-proclaimed 'most romantic language of the world.' He had a good feeling that the blond was collecting Canada in his arms and was about to march into the room any moment now.

And his gut instinct was spot on – only a few seconds passed and France's foot kicked open the door, revealing the light haired duo. The polar bear cub, Kumajirou, lazily followed in after the two as they stepped in. "Clotaire~ I promised you I'd be back with Mathieu," France affirmed while he swayed lithely towards the little boy. Minnesota glared at him, frustrated at how long the wait was. France chose to ignore the daggers and he set a miffed Canada in the empty chair next to the brunette.

Minnesota knew why Mattie was irked—Canada knew the basics and then some of the French language. But because France refused to allow Canada to wander around lonely and didn't want Minnesota to feel as though he were being punished for not playing with Canada, he'd persuaded his elder son to re-learn the basics with Minnesota. That way, they'd be all bonding like a normal family.

"All right, now that all students are in attendance," France started as he whipped out a few pieces of paper and pulled out two goose feathers from his sleeve before setting them next to a small glass of ink, "let's begin the journey of learning the marvelous language of yours truly~" Minnesota scrunched his brow in annoyance. He exchanged a look with Canada, who looked like he would rather be anywhere but there at the moment.

France rambled on for a long while. He was nostalgic about his early days in his prosperous nation—he remembered being a young boy and creating his own sort of language that people in today's world still use. He went on his little charade for over twenty minutes. Minnesota was getting irritated with each passing minute, knowing full well that France's incessant stories of the past came before anything and everything. When he couldn't take the mixture of English and French being used to tell the story, the raven haired binoojing abhorrently coughed into a balled up fist.

"Hey, uhh, hate to have you stop your story mid-sentence, but when is this damned lesson goin' to be over with?" the boy piped up in a hoarse voice. France stopped and chuckled nervously to himself. He'd been so caught up in the moment that he'd forgotten what triggered the sentimental frame of mind.

"Oui, of course," he chirped after collecting himself. He took a seat on the last empty chair at the table and folded his arms across his chest, a smirk dancing gracefully on his pink lips. "Now, besides Mathieu, who can tell me what the very first phrase all French citizens learn before they can walk?" Minnesota narrowed his eyes. He wasn't given too much a choice, as Corbin only taught him how to say "Fous le camp," but would never tell him what it meant. Maybe that's what France wanted to hear, since it was the only French term he knew.

"I 'unno, is it 'fous le camp'?" he guessed absentmindedly. The lack of praise made Minnesota glance up. A smile twitched on his lips when he saw the horrified look on France's face. Canada covered his mouth and hid a giggle at his papa's expression. "I'm guessing that was wrong?" Minnesota snickered. France shook his head; he had to let Minnesota in on the truth. Otherwise, the boy will always think it means something completely different than its actual definition.

"Minnesota, don't ever say that again, please?" the blond pleaded. "It's a naughty word and I'd hate to have to wash your mouth out with soap." Minnesota gave the man a dark look and demanded to know why. France chuckled nervously as he stammered out the meaning in phrases that were gentle on young kids' ears. "Um, well, it means... err..." He struggled to find a G-rated definition for the vulgar phrase while a furious Native and a quizzical Canadian looked on. At long last, he cleared his throat and pulled on his shirt's collar, thinking that maybe he'd finally found the right words to say. "Ahaha~ it's a way to tell someone to leave you alone when you're busy," France declared in a matter of fact tone. He gently rubbed his facial hair, proud of himself for his quick-thinking. Minnesota scrunched his eyebrows and thought long and hard about the meaning.

"Oh, so is it like tellin' someone to 'fuck off'?" Minnesota's genuinely confused voice squeaked out after a few minutes of silence. Oh, this was going to be a long language lesson, indeed.

-.-

The rest of the day was wasted on Minnesota's irrelevant questions about learning certain French words – mainly profanity phrases – and Canada constantly repeating who he was to Kumajirou. France was, in layman's terms, tired to the point of insanity. Or insomnia. At this point, it could go both ways. France was appreciative of the night that loomed over the northern Minnesotan prairies, as his oldest had slipped out of the kitchen and turned in early and Minnesota was growing tired of his own voice. France scratched his head warily as he used his other arm to reach down and pick up the small child. He yawned and the second he was in the blond's warm arms, he nuzzled his face into the comfortable chest.

"How did you enjoy today's lesson, mon fils?" France asked softly as he stepped up the steps carefully, so he wouldn't wake his other son. Minnesota shrugged half-heartedly and opened a brown eye.

"'S all right, I guess," he simply stated. His caretaker chuckled, but said no more. Minnesota was slowly fading into darkness' embrace, and France didn't want to say or do anything that would startle the territory. Minnesota's breathing was rhythmic; he was close to falling asleep. France opened the mahogany door to Minnesota's room and stepped towards the bed. The boy shifted lethargically while the nation set him on his bed gently and covered him up with an azure blanket.

France took in the adorable sight for a moment until Minnesota sat up suddenly, looking at him. For a moment, France was convinced that the binoojing was about to give him hell for staring at him while he was asleep, but that thought was put to rest when Minnesota rubbed his eyes sleepily. "'Ay, France, I want'd t' ask ya somethin'." France nodded for him to continue, a bit surprised by the boy's cute tone. "Y' never told me wha' the first French phrase is. Think ya can fill me in?" France let out a little laugh and tenderly pushed the boy back into the warmth of his bed.

"Oh, of course I can tell you, Clotaire~ If you can believe it, it's 'Je'taime'," the blond purred. "It means 'I love you.' It's something that everyone should learn how to say, of course, but there are people who don't know what love is. Take, for example, the British-"

"Fous le camp, Francis, I'm goin' to bed." France contained his shock from being rudely cut off by someone who was still so young. He squeaked out a 'What?' and Minnesota's response was a grumbled, "You heard me." He was about to walk out of the room in a melancholic manner when his ears picked up the little boy sighing gruffly. "... Je'taime, France." Stunned at first, the personification allowed the boy's last words of the night process through his head. After a couple seconds, the blond smiled to himself and he left the room, still smiling.

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A/N Agh~ This was a bit difficult to write. I had a few phrases I wanted Minnesota to learn, but I just threw the ideas out of my window -.-"


	10. Jamais Vu

A/N "Jamais vu" is the opposite of "Deja vu." It means 'never seen' d: This chapter deals more with France than Minnesota. It deals with the Louisiana Purchase; sadly, my moronic and ignorant tendencies in US History has made my knowledge on the Louisiana Purchase come to a miniscule amount, so if any of the things mentioned about the L.P. in this prompt are wrong, don't kill me—just think of it as historical inaccuracy xD (BTW, if you have baby ears/eyes, then I would suggest not reading this. France and Spain throw quite a few foreign profanities in the presence of minors)

Disclaimer: NO MORE OF THIS! I don't own APH _or_ OC!Minnesota _or_ any of the historical figures mentioned. After this, I'm not doing the disclaimer. If you've actually gotten this far, I think the first 9 chapters state my business (:

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_Prompt 10: "Jamais Vu"  
>Never in his life had Minnesota seen such a man that was capable of such anger, so it was understandable to not recognize France when he came home furious.<em>

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It was a rather moody mid-autumn day; France paced around the small conference room, an undecipherable feeling looming in the pit of his stomach. One of France's noblemen, a man by the name of Pierre(1), had requested that the nation come to the territory that was Louisiana. He didn't really want to, as he had his hands full with Minnesota and Canada and he had mixed emotions about this meeting, but reluctantly agreed to meet with the man. He trusted that his boys were going to be all right without him for a few days.

The feelings had settled in his stomach when he saw his good friends, Spain and Prussia(2), sitting around and chatting amongst each other. But those emotions returned with a vengeance once the blond settled with his pals and he'd asked them what the conference was about and they, too, had no answers to give. For all the trio knew, they were just summoned out of the blue. The self-proclaimed Bad Touch Trio remained quiet the remainder of the time as they waited for Pierre to enter the room.

When the Frenchman did, the leader of America, Thomas Jefferson, and a string of children(3), all of whom were inexplicably crusty, ruggedly dressed, and exhausted ('Were those small ones Canada's little friends?'), followed closely behind. They were all holding hands, despite the look of absolute hatred glimmering in their hazy orbs. France hitched his breath as the children marched into the room—he'd recognized all of them, despite the lack of bonding. They were all under French or Spanish control; that explained Spain's presence, though Prussia's was still under question. As the territories suddenly were crammed in the room, a familiar young man with gleaming cerulean eyes that hid behind slightly dirty glasses stepped in.

It was at that moment that France noticed the little girl that rested against the caramel haired man's chest. Her dirty hands clung tightly on his shirt and her tear-streaked cheeks were feathered with gentle crimson. She was the territory Louisiana; a territory that was under _his _control. When France first found her, she was in an identical position that she was in now – her dirty blonde tresses were tousled and cuts and bruises grazed her limbs, yet she still fought hard against France's advances, even though she was in a horrible condition. It had taken her a fortnight to trust the personification to heal her wounds, and an even longer time to grow to love him.

With that memory still in mind, madness grasped a hold of the blond's heart and it took every ounce of his willpower – and Prussia's iron grip on his elbow while the albino also held back Spain – to keep from lunging at the men. Instead, France growled out, "Amerique, what the _Hell_ is this?" The man with the glasses, America, shrugged halfheartedly and nodded at Pierre to speak, who cleared his throat to have all eyes on him.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy, Monsieur Hernandez, I have requested that you come here to offer a proposal that myself, Alfred, and Thomas have thought of together," Pierre started. Spain and France calmed down a little and ripped their arms away from a dismayed Prussia before narrowing their eyes. They both didn't speak, but their body language did. Pierre continued, "It has been brought to our attention that these territories," Thomas motioned at the angry brood of children, "are currently under French and Spanish control, correct?"

"Oui."

"Si. And what of it?" Spain grunted, trying to keep his composure together. The Frenchman chuckled rather darkly while Thomas twiddled his thumbs meticulously.

"As you hopefully may have noticed, they are all living on American soil," he droned on, a mocking tone surfacing. Prussia locked arms with France and Spain tightly, knowing what was about to be said and knowing that the two were going to react rather violently. "What we have put together is a little something called Vente de la Louisiane." Spain's emerald eyes lost its glowing rage and cluelessness softened in the orbs.

France, on the other hand, just about lost it. If it hadn't been for Prussia, the blond would've grabbed the short Frenchman and choke him to death. He chose for a less severe method of venting and dug his nails into the soft flesh of his palms. The children watched in silent awe as the blond pointed an accusing finger at the men. "S-salaud(4)! What do you mean 'The Sale of Louisiana'? The French and Spanish acquired the territories fairly! We were the ones that discovered these territories-"

"And that's where you are wrong, Sir Francis," the American president spoke up in a soft voice, finally making his presence known. The nation's eyes narrowed at the sight of the Democratic-Republican. "I don't mean to be so rude as to interrupt your, erm... speech, but as you may have saw upon coming here yourself, there were already people that were entitled to this land. After Christopher Columbus founded what is now Virginia, and the indigenous people had accepted our presence, America was, inadvertently, born. Everything that belongs outside of the Canadian border is on American land—therefore, all territories and such are America's." America nodded gingerly, though a mixture of hurt and puzzlement fogged in his eyes.

He saw how much Spain and France adored the little ones they found and he, at first, rejected the proposal, as he didn't want to cause a rift in the relationship he had for the two. However, his boss and this Pierre character were deeply pondering this decision for so long that by now, refusing would've forced a groove between the relationship of the expanding nation and his people.

He felt pity for the Spaniard and frog, though – it was why he summoned Prussia to hold back the two when this announcement was made, as this decision was finalized between France's boss and two of America's well-trusted citizens only a week ago. France and Spain, in turn, had no choice but to turn over the territories that were bought altogether. As for the others that only bits and pieces of land were bought, the two nations were lucky. Despite the fact that France's boss sold the land for a palsy three cents an acre, America managed to convince Thomas not to buy the others in bulk, claiming that there was so much time for that in the future. In reality, America couldn't bear to take care of so many kids at one time.

"Now, as you can see from this map, we have outlined the land that we took. It begins, obviously, in parts of Louisiana, and as you go north, you can clearly see others, such as the territories of Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa, and some of the Minnesotan territory-"

"EHH? C'est des conneries(5)! You can't just snatch what was rightfully ours!"

"Hijo de puta! Puta madre(6)! How could you have done something so horrible, you idiota?" America froze when his thoughts crashed and burned and he was forced back into the throes of reality. Focusing his vision on the two nations that struggled against their German friend's grasp, he watched as Pierre scowled at the duo's antics, indifferent towards their abrasive behavior.

"Ta gueule, Bonnefoy!" the Frenchman ordered sternly. That sadistic smile played on the man's lips. Prussia ground his teeth—he detested the rude, albeit bold attitude this midget had acted towards his friends. But by holding the Spaniard and blond back, they wouldn't emotionally scar the children that stared at the spectacle, all of them completely withdrawn physically. Thomas stepped in between the tense men, forcing a cough into his fist.

"Now, now, gentlemen, let's not get too hasty in front of the children," the president said warily. The nobleman chortled to himself, but agreed with what the superior stated. France and Spain, though reluctant, quieted themselves and a thick tension surfaced in the room. Louisiana shifted gently in America's arms, moaning softly and painfully as she held her stomach weakly. The other children were still in a reserved state of mind. After a few minutes of complete silence, Thomas spoke up.

"The deal has already been sealed, Sir Francis and Sir Antonio," Thomas murmured. "Two of my best men were sent to Paris a week ago to negotiate the Purchase with a man by the name of François Barbé-Marbois(7), who, as Francis would know, was a close... acquaintance of Sir Bonaparte." France's eyes widened in shock at the mention of his great leader's name. "We've requested your presence so you both knew and wouldn't try to reclaim the areas as your own. I apologize for the inconvenient time, but I hadn't realized how long your trips were to get here, as I had summoned you two the day the Purchase occurred."

Spain's arm went limp in Prussia's grasp, and the German pulled away from his friend. The Spaniard could feel a fiery anger burn in his heart, but throwing a tantrum wasn't going to get him anywhere. He could only watch with glossy eyes as most of the territories that were once under his reign were ceded into America. France refused to give up his, however. He struggled in Prussia's hold, wildly kicking at a smirking Pierre and an indifferent America as the children were ushered out of the room by Thomas.

"Brûle en enfer! C'est la guerre, fils de pute(8)!" France snarled venomously. Prussia grunted for him to calm down and Spain comfortingly squeezed the blond's shoulder and begged for him to calm down, that what's done is done and all they can do is let them go. But as France continued to thrash around in fury, Pierre allowed America to exit first and the Frenchman turned around, a demented glint in his eyes. The personification growled threateningly. "Lache-moi la grappe(9)!" he hissed at the albino before turning his eyes back to an amused Pierre. "Allez au diable, vous fils de pute(10)! You're horrible!" The man feigned pity for France as he waved his hand around lithely.

"C'est la vie(11)," he stated crisply before walking out, that same mocking smile waltzing on his lips as he did. After Pierre slammed the door following his exit, Prussia finally let France's arm go free; the blond immediately dropped to his knees, emitting a dry sob leave his throat. Spain and Prussia knelt down next to their heartbroken friend, Spain feeling the man's pain and Prussia feeling guilty for having to hold back both of his friends while their land was taken right in front of them.

"Mi amigo... it's going to be all right, yeah?" the Spaniard whispered in a hoarse voice. He extended a hand towards the fallen nation, as did Prussia. "C'mon, let's go out and have a bit of Lovi's Amontillado. It'll take our mind off things." France pulled away from his friends' advances and forced himself to his feet. He was, in layman's terms, beyond pissed. Not just towards Pierre, one of his own men, but also directed his anger towards his friends. After this _traumatizing _event, and all they can think to do is _drink_?

Pushing away the limbs of his buddies, France staggered out of the room, mumbling many French profanities under his breath, as Prussia and Spain looked on. The brunette called out for the blond, but Prussia quieted him. "What just happened was unawesome, Toni—let Francis vent for awhile. He'll be fine."

-.-

He wasn't too sure on how long he'd been walking – France had kept his head down the entire time. Scarlet flushed his cheeks from the bitterness that made his nerves jump. How could America just go and take away the colonies that he and Spain founded first? And the nerve of Pierre, one who declared himself to be a French nobleman! 'He's a disgrace; that's what he is!' the nation cried out in his mind. He so badly wanted to beat the mortal to death—but Prussia was a strong man, even if his Teutonic Knights era ended long ago.

France emitted an abrasive huff. He was going to get back at the bastard one of these days. "P-papa! C'est bon de te revoir(12)!" Azure orbs met with exuberant violet eyes as Canada rushed out of the palatial home and into France's arms. Kumajirou followed lazily, and even Minnesota stepped out of the house, too exhausted to keep up with the energetic Canadian. France couldn't help but grin weakly at his son's overjoyed welcoming; upon seeing Minnesota, however, his jaw dropped.

How long had he been traveling, indeed? The not-so little boy aged from an adorable 4 or 5 year old to a bigger 8 year old boy. He was still slightly smaller than Canada, but the fact that he'd aged in such a small amount of time—

"Quoi de neuf alors(13), France," Minnesota piped up when he was in hearing range. His voice even changed, even if it was just a tad. "What took ya?" Canada pointed at the Native boy with a stunned look in his eyes.

"Papa, Clotaire grew last week! He went to the restroom as a little boy and by the time he came out, he looked like that!" Canada exclaimed in concern. France blinked while Minnesota stuck out his tongue at his older brother.

"Fous le camp, Mattie! I told ya t' quit runnin' yer mouth about my body!" Minnesota bellowed in distress. The two began arguing noisily – a habit that developed in the duration of France's leave, no doubt. But something in France – and he wasn't sure what – clenched his throbbing heart before it plummeted to the pit of his stomach. If the Purchase was dealt with a week ago, and his boy grew a week ago, did that mean-?

With Canada still in his arms, France hurried over to a daunted Minnesota and scooped him up. The boy was about to flail around in protest, but ceased to when France tightly embraced his boys close to his chest. The blond buried his face on the top of their heads and promptly let out an arid cry. His body quivered frantically as the wracked man recited over and over again in an almost melodious fashion, "Je ne te laisserai jamais partir(14)."

n.n

1 – According to what I've read, a French nobleman by the name of Pierre Samuel du Pont du Nemours was requested by then president Thomas Jefferson to negotiate with his home country at the time of the Purchase. He apparently went through with this request because he wanted to avoid the French troops that may have/did land on New Orleans.

2 – I'm positive that Germanic states had nothing to do with anything that occurred during this part of American history, but I added Prussia to bring together the Bad Touch Trio (plus, someone had to hold back the two when this unfortunate news was brought on, yes?)

3 – The children mentioned are the territories that were bought in the Purchase: all of Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska were bought. Parts of Minnesota, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and Louisiana were sold. Most of North Dakota was bought, and nearly all of South Dakota was taken (like, a tip of a corner in SD remained untouched, that's how much of the land was taken), as well as northeastern New Mexico and northern Texas. Canadian provinces Saskatchewan and Alberta were also a part of the L.P.

4 – French for "Bastard(s)" (I'm not too sure on how to make things plural in French, so if I got this wrong, my bad, my blunder :\)

5 – French for "This is bullshit!"

6 – Spanish for "Son of a whore/bitch! Motherfucker!" (It's not like Spain to swear, but to have his territories be taken a week before he found out would cause him to snap, in my opinion. And 'Puta madre' is literally translated as 'fucking mother' or 'whore')

7 – Upon reading, I discovered that Napoleon Bonaparte was in talks with Barbé-Marbois about selling all of the Louisiana territory to America, as he'd lost Saint-Domingue (which is now known as Haiti) and the area held little value to him anymore because the revenues of the Caribbean sugar colonies dissipated. The two men good ol' Jefferson mentioned were James Monroe and Robert R. Livingston. Interesting fact: days before James Monroe arrived in Paris, François offered Livingston ALL of Louisiana + co. instead of just New Orleans.

8 – French for "Burn in Hell! This is war, you son of a bitch!"

9 – French for "Leave me alone!"

10 – French for "Go to Hell, motherfucker!"

11 - French for "That's life."

12 – French for "It's nice to see you again!"

13 – French for "What's up then." (A common catchphrase of Minnesota's is a rezzy-accented 'Sup den.' I figured this was about as French as it could get d:)

14 – French for "I'll never let you go." (OK, I'm gonna be honest, I cite the French lyrics for Elvis Presley's song "I'll Never Let You Go (Little Darlin')" for this translation xD I wouldn't be surprised if I got this wrong))

A/N I gave Spain and France Romano's mouth in this xD I take back what I said in "Runaway," this chapter was fuckin' hard to write (not to mention...really long) =_="


	11. Native America, Pt I

A/N Well, fuck, I lied. I have to do one more disclaimer...thing.

Disclaimer: OC!Onatah/Native America belongs to _**~sessystalker**_ on deviantART. I have a link to the fanart on my profile, so if anyone who wants to get a better insight on Native America can see it for themselves d:

n.n

_Prompt 11: "Native America, Part I"  
>Minnesota saw her one day while France was out with Canada – he couldn't understand why her eyes were wet and why she was painted red, but he knew deep down that it was the white man that had done this to his mama.<em>

n.n

Minnesota sat with his legs criss-crossed on the rubbery grass, a bored look surfacing on his face. He folded his thin arms and leaned against the pine tree behind him. Canada sat directly across from his brother and was playing with Kumajirou—for once, the polar bear hadn't forgotten who the thriving nation was and happily consented with the pre-adolescent caramel blond's hand running through his clear fur. The two were supposed to be cramming time to be together because France had planned _another _trip back to Canada's house for the third time in a row – this time, Mathieu was asked to come along and he was overjoyed at the thought of going back home for a little while.

That decision, as Minnesota soon learned, completely left out the little French territory. He was going to be home alone—not the type of loneliness where he had a barely noticeable Canadian to talk to when he was bored out of his mind, it was the loneliness where he literally had no one or thing to converse with. And, he didn't want to sound like a whiny brat but, the growing boy was a little afraid.

Yes, he was left behind by France and Canada before, but that didn't make the situation at hand any better. In fact, as his adoptive family packed a few of their belongings and left for days to weeks at a time, Minnesota was frightened with each of their recent trips. He had a theory – one that seemed so outrageous and disputable, but it haunted his conscience each night. He felt like France and Canada were preparing him to adjusting to life without them—as though they were going to pack their things one day and never come back. The thought alone was enough to scare Minnesota out of his wits and he desperately wanted to hold them close, just so they wouldn't leave him alone.

Yet, here he was, sitting across from his Canadian brother, sending him daggers for choosing to spend time with that God damn beast for a pet instead of a living human. The duo were supposed to be spending the first half of this blistering hot June (or Juin, as France affectionately said) day together. France told them to get all of their activities done before the sun reached its highest peak in the sky because that's when the two blonds were going to leave. And, judging by how dangerously close the older blond nation was with his arms wide open, it was that time to bid a temporary farewell to his family.

The goodbyes were always right to the point; France always tried to bring up his boys that there was never a 'true' goodbye, but more of a 'See you later' type of departure. Despite the mixed emotions that fluttered in his tummy, today's farewell was no different. "Mathieu! Come along now, we have to get going if we want to remain on schedule~" The blond stopped just a few feet short of his two silent sons and motioned for his oldest to stand, who obeyed without protest. The Frenchman then laid his eyes on his youngest, the latter of whom remained on the ground. "Minnesota~" France purred, "can I get a farewell embrace, mon fils?"

France vainly tried to hoist the expanding territory in his arms, but a few factors kicked in on why he couldn't. First off, Minnesota's fist collided with the Frenchman's cheek—he'd forgotten that the boy had a particular circle of personal space and would get vehemently physical if the circle was penetrated. Next, Minnesota was getting too big to hold up, as remembered when France had just yesterday tried picking up the boy, only to have his knees buckling and collapsing underneath him moments afterward. And lastly – Francis denied this numerous times, but it was still an unfortunate possibility – his body was getting too old to continually toss around his son and catch him.

Instead, he opted to pet his boy's hair after standing up from the blow to his face. "M-Mattie, bid 'Adieu' to your little brother," he stated coarsely. Canada stood next to France in an awkward stance, not really sure what to say to keep the conversation going. Minnesota got the gist of what his brother felt like, so he shrugged it off and gave the Canadian a nod. Twiddling his thumbs nervously, Canada repeated his sibling's action before wrapping his arms around a sleepy Kumajirou and cradling the bear in his arms.

"Au revoir, Minnie," he whispered softly. France offered his hand to the shy Canadian, who took it hesitantly, and the two walked away on a beaten-up trail. Minnesota watched in indifference as the men were off. A few moments of standing directly below the scorching hot sun, the boy sunk to the ground and crawled underneath his tree.

All alone.

-.-

A few hours lingered by leisurely, reminding Minnesota that he had to go back inside France's large house soon. He spent his time outside for the remainder of the day, waiting until the sky became a mesh of several soft colors and the air cooled down considerably to stand up and stretch. He was barefoot—it was only naturally of him to be so on such an arid day. Hell, if he could, his shirt would've been discarded along with the ugly black boots that were popular for about a week in France, but he choose to keep it on. The shirt, his father figure said one day, was made out of the finest Chinese silk that was to offer, and he knew how crushed Francis would be if it was discovered on the dirty ground.

Looking towards the direction of the palatial mansion, Minnesota's eyes narrowed. He wasn't ready to go in there just yet, and with no one to bother him, he could go out far into the wilderness and spend time reliving his roots. A smile curved on his lips – 'Oui, that's what I'll do,' he thought lamely to himself and turned away from his home. Brushing off his long braid on his shoulder, the territory sauntered into the dark brush that was on his right.

Screw what he thought earlier—this was freedom from France! How could he have worried over something as trivial as his adoptive dad and brother leaving him? Even if they butted heads from time to time, they were a family and stuck by each other through thick and thin. Minnesota just had to think of this as a break from his faux family and have real fun with his other family, the family Mother Nature provided year-round. With each step came a faster pace, and as his pace became swifter, the colony began to laugh. Not the smug, maniacal laughter that he bellowed out in front of Francis and Mattie, but a genuine snicker.

It was absolutely liberating racing through the unfamiliar areas of this thick forest. Even though Minnesota hadn't lived out in the wild for so long, he could still leap over huge rocks and fallen tree limbs as though he were flying like an eagle. He could crawl underneath spaces that appeared to only fit his head and used the soles of his bare feet to slide down grassy hills as though he were skating. Remnants of the fireball in the sky were still shining gently when he finally reached a dead end – a glistening lake in his northern land.

With the sky beginning to fade away into an inky night, the sun resisted the urge to set and instead, its scarlet beams bounced off the sloshing waves of the hidden oasis. Minnesota, not wanting to perturb the beautiful sight with his abrasiveness, slightly rested his back against a dead pine tree and stared in awe at the fragile beauty of this rare moment in nature. The lake was shimmering ruby shards of liquid and the waves rolled delicately to the shore before pulling back. This motion became repetitive, but he didn't care. He just basked in the warm feeling the sight gave him in his stomach.

It was at that moment he saw _her_. She sat far off to the side, hunched over and hugging her knees to her chest while her feet were dipped in the moist sand. Her head had to have been resting on her limbs, for it was rolled forward and her ravenous tresses, though stained with mud and pebbles, completely hid her face from view. Very, very quietly, Minnesota tiptoed in the direction of this mysterious lady and came up behind her. Reluctantly, he extended a hand to the woman and gently tapped her bare shoulder, revealing his position.

When she withdrew her face from the confines of her bony arms, a look of shock, horror, and recognition twisted on Minnesota's face at the sight of the woman. It was the one who had birthed him so long ago, the one that loved him unconditionally despite the time they had apart, the one he called his mother. It was Maamaa Onatah(1), the personification of Native America.

Minnesota was overcome with a horrid realization and he fell backward, landing onto the smooth sandy beach and hard on his bottom. She wasn't anything like the Native America he remembered—his maamaa was a strong nation, and was indubitably cunning. She could flex herself out of a terrible situation with a bat of an eye and a whisper of love and lies. So powerful Native America was, he remembered her being, that she was the admirable heroine of his life. And now, she had been reduced to this... this weeping stranger.

Her buckskin clothing had been stripped off her body a long time ago, he mused, when he noticed that she was nude. Her sticky hair hid her breasts and her nether regions, though she made sure her arms were crossed to keep her little boy from peeking at her scarred body. Her lips were bruised and bloody and she lapped away the excess crimson fluid to keep her mouth from getting dry. And, as Minnesota lay on the sand, motionless, he could see in her misty, auburn ashy eyes a look of irrepressible fright and anguish. It was that exact look that sent Minnesota in a tizzy because, in that split second, he was thoroughly convinced that this woman wasn't his mother.

Onatah could see her boy fall to the ground, even through her blurry vision, and she forced her body around to help up the binoojing. "Mnisota!" she whimpered as she weakly crawled over to him. Hearing her plea, the brunette sat up quickly and gave his mother a bewildered stare. Had this weary woman really have been his mama? "M-Mnisota? Oh, miigwech Great Spirit~ Negoosis, are you all right?" She yanked his wrist and forced him into a tight embrace with the quivering woman – almost instantly, Onatah sniffled in his head as she rocked back and forth, still holding him close to her heaving chest.

Resting the side of his head over her heart, Minnesota could feel the vital organ pulsing erratically and he squeezed his mother good and tight, trying to comfort her with the fact that she now held someone who wasn't so foreign to her. Nuzzling his nose into her breast, the Native boy felt a thin fluid running across his lips and, curious as he was in the midst of the willowy hug, he opened his mouth slightly and tasted something that was terribly bitter and copper. He made a face in her chest and tried to wipe away the sour liquid off of his face.

After gently shoving his mama away, Minnesota examined her bare body by brushing away Onatah's hair and he was stunned at the sight of an oozing wound on the crook of her neck. Tears were spilling down his mother's cheeks and she looked away from her son's gaze, ashamed of what he saw. "Negoosis, look away. Your pure, undefiled eyes should not have to see such an unearthly sight." His eyes traveled up to his mother's, and his heart clenched when he saw the clear drops of tears brimming at the corners of her orbs before they fell, making a trail down her chin and into her neck. He slowly brought his hands up to her cheeks and he wiped them away with his rough fingertips, only to make way for another trail of tears to slide down her reddened cheeks.

"Maamaa, don't cry, s'il vous plait? It hurts me to see you like this..." His softened eyes and the inadvertent use of a foreign word forced her to smile sadly and she ran a tired hand through his thick locks, finally calming down after a bit of weeping. Native America sighed deeply and she gently coaxed her son into letting go of her warm face. She tenderly brushed her hand against the wound on her neck, wincing as she did so, before running a hand through her own messy hair.

"... Mnisota," Onatah breathed affectionately, "please, do not worry about your old mother. These tears I weep—they're for my- gaawiin, _our _people. These tears," she guided his hand over the moist trail on her face, "are not falling because I am sad—they fall for the ones that are hurting and dying." Minnesota's hand trembled in hers and he gave a scared look. Gently pecking him on one of his chubby cheeks, his concerns were soothed for a moment. She then turned his body around and weakly pushed him towards the brush. "Mnisota, go, please—and never come back until you're ready."

_Until I'm ready? What the hell is that supposed to mean? _Minnesota wanted to cry out, but Native America pushed him further out into the brush. "W-wait, Maamaa-" But it was too late for questions – she'd shooed him far enough that he was quickly surrounded by the dark shadows of trees and bushes. He whipped around in a full circle, only to see more and more brush blocking his view from that beautiful red lake and his wounded mother. "What do ya mean 'until I'm ready'? Where'd ya go? Maamaa? Maamaa! MAAMAA!"

-.-

Minnesota could feel himself being swept off of his bed and into someone's oddly comforting tepid arms. He, with his eyes still tightly shut, struck the person in the chest repeatedly, thinking it was a stranger that was trying to take him away. "Shh, Clotaire, it's only Francis..." The man's gentle purring voice sang through the boy's ears and Minnesota felt his stomach tighten from the guilt when he opened his eyes to confirm that it was, indeed, France consoling the boy. Latching onto the silky fabric of the Frenchman's nightshirt, Minnesota's wails were muffled as the image of Onatah was glued into his mind.

France rocked the boy soothingly, trying to alleviate his son's crying with whispered words of incoherency. When that wasn't doing anything – perhaps even making things worse – the blond sighed and cradled the boy closer. He began to murmur a sweet French lullaby in the binoojing's ear and rubbed his back softly. "Tout le monde est sage~ Dans le voisinage... Il est l'heure d'aller dormir, le sommeil va bientôt venir...(2)" Minnesota's body, though still quivering violently, began to relax in the man's arms and France grinned sleepily at the feeling. "Mon fils, it was nothing more than a dream, a demented delusion. There's nothing to be afraid of, I'll always be here for you~" he mumbled faintly. The boy's choked sobs resounded in the darkened room as he nervously wriggled in the blond's arms. Seeing how daunted his territory was, France laced his fingers through Minnesota's ravenous locks, much like the way Onatah did in his dream.

"Mon fils, would you like to talk about it?" the blond inquired lightly. Setting the boy back in his warm bed, the frog continued to stroke the personification's hair. Minnesota jerked his head away from France and vigorously rubbed his eyes. The memory of his mother in such a state was still fresh in his mind, even if it had been a dream. "Minnesota?" Avoiding eye contact with the older nation, Minnesota turned his body around to face the other side of the room, salty tears still streaming down his face as the words Native America said had, at last, processed fully in his mind. He pulled his legs close to his chest and his half-lidded mocha eyes glanced up at the vigilant Frenchman's eyes.

"... I'll talk when I feel ready," he merely stated before dozing off into a dreamless void.

n.n

1 – Ojibwe and Iroquois for "Mama Onatah" (I'm not exaggerating the 'ah' sound for the Chippewa spelling of 'mama,' they really do put in two A's for the word. As for those who oddly don't wish to see OC!Native America or didn't read sessystalker's comments on her artwork, "Onatah" is Iroquois for "child of the earth")

2 – This is the final verse in the French lullaby "_Dodo, l'enfant do_" (English: _Sleepy Time, The Young One Sleeps_) In order, the English lyrics are:

Everyone is calm  
>All around<br>It's time for all to sleep  
>Sleep will come soon<p>

A/N I failed at making this seem like a "Did it or didn't it happen?" type of oneshot xD I guess not everyone can pull off the "Inception" sequences quite like...Inception lol Oh yeah, when Native America was crying, it references the Trail of Tears, the movement of Native American nations which is described today as an act of genocide, as thousands of Native Americans died en route to the relocated reservations and such.


	12. Songs

_Prompt 12: "Songs"  
>From what America was always boasting about, Minnesota decided that enough was enough and he finally mustered up the courage to sing the God-awful repetitive hymn Japan calls, "Marukaite Chikyuu" and "Hatafutte Parade."<em>

n.n

Marukaite Chikyuu ~Minnesota

Hey hey daddy, give me tobacco  
>Hey hey mommy, hey hey mommy<br>I still can't forget the taste of the  
>Frybread that I ate so long ago~<p>

Draw a circle, there's a sav  
>Draw a circle, there's a sav<br>Draw a circle, there's a sav  
>That sav is Minnesota!<p>

Draw a circle, there's a sav  
>Draw a circle, who's that sav?<br>Draw a circle—WHO TOOK MY BUD?  
>I did 'cause I'mma sav!<p>

Ahh, with a stroke of a brush  
>A savvy world can be seen!<br>I have cold winters also  
>So Russia, kiss my ass!<p>

(Hohwah, all the Natives in the house  
>Let's party like it's 1491!)<p>

Draw a circle, there's a sav  
>Draw a circle, there's a sav<br>Draw a circle, there's a sav  
>That sav is Minnesota!<p>

Draw a circle, there's a sav  
>Draw a circle, is that a sav?<br>Draw a circle, it is a sav  
>'Cause it's Minnesota!<p>

Ahh, with some dough and grease  
>It's the recipe of frybread-bliss<br>("Pow-Wow Indian tacos are the best!")  
>And after a bit of Grand Entry,<br>I'll go eat s'more!

Hey hey homie, give me tobacco  
>And while you're at it, give me soda<br>Hey hey Manitoba, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!  
>Hey hey Iggy (You need to wax, Unk)<p>

Hey hey daddy, give me Budlight  
>Hey hey mommy, hey hey mommy<br>I'll always remember the taste of  
>The frybread that I ate so long~<p>

"L'Etoile du Nord" is about  
>The only French I know!<p>

Draw a circle, there's a sav  
>Draw a circle, there's a sav<br>Draw a circle, there's a sav  
>That sav is Minnesota!<p>

Ahh, with a stroke of a brush  
>A savvy world can be seen!<br>I have cold winters also  
>So Russia, kiss my ass!<p>

Ahh, my seasons vary completely  
>And I have the Mall of America!<br>I'm the best in the Midwest-  
>The Great Plains~!<p>

Hatafutte Parade ~Minnesota

In my right hand is frybread~  
>In my left hand is tobacco!<p>

Frying bread, smoking tobacco  
>It's nothing short of a parade!<br>Towards the savvy world-  
>Let's bounce!<p>

Take our hands, make a circle,  
>Spin, and you've got the world<br>With a single braid, I'm in the top form!

Blue and a white emblem make my flag  
>"I could really go for a smoke..."<br>He-ta-li-a!

"Each Memorial Weekend, the first outdoor pow-wow is held! (About damn time, if you ask me...)"

Frying bread, smoking tobacco  
>It's nothing short of a parade!<br>Sound your instruments-  
>It's time to march!<p>

If everyone at one-two makes the ensemble,  
>The one and only song...might actually sound OK!<br>Drumming at the drums  
>Is the one and only sav, me!<p>

"Now stand up and shut up  
>As I give drumming a new meaning!"<p>

With a beat of a drum and a jingle of a dress  
>The world is at ease<br>That is, only if Manitoba  
>Keeps his ass away from me<p>

Omaabi-izhaan!  
>Omaabi-izhaan!<br>Omaabi-izhaan! (Once upon a time,)  
>Omaabi-izhaan! (A lo~ng time ago,)<br>Omaabi-izhaan! (About 15 years ago,)  
>Omaabi-izhaan! (My winter was colder than Russia's!)<br>Omaabi-izhaan! (Hohwah~)

Frying bread, smoking tobacco  
>It's nothing short of a parade!<br>This melody is universal  
>The 5 continents and the high seas<br>Traverse each other grandly at this perfect tempo!

This is the pow-wow that continues into tomorrow  
>"But not with <em>you,<em> Manitoba!"

Blue and a white emblem make my flag!  
>"Ash it before you pass it!"<br>He-ta-li-a!

"Fous le camp, Manitoba! You got me so mad that I'm speaking frog!"

n.n

A/N Oh God, I was so proud when I wrote this a few months ago xD It's so beautiful~ I actually intended to do a different prompt for this chapter, but...I got lazy (plus, I literally couldn't think of anything to write that would go with the sentence, it was too challenging), so I just posted these instead :D Next up are his character songs~ (But first, I have to finish this story lol)

_Omaabi-izhaan is Ojibwe for "Let's go," by the way..._

**EDIT:** I edited this lol There you go, Hajear~


End file.
